The Sting of Spring
by Gumdrop Boo
Summary: Spring is all about renewal but for Berk it is the raiding season. Now that they are of age, our favorite Vikings must fight not only a battle, but also the ones within themselves. :Post movie 3 years; series of related and extended oneshots:
1. The Bigger World

**A/N:** This is a continuation of my previous HTTYD one shot comp – '_**T****he Winter Haul**_' and I personally suggest you read that before this but it isn't necessary as all chapters are contained character studies that when compiled create a plot. I will warn that there is violence though as these are VIKINGS that are fighting. Please enjoy though, and say so if you did. Thanks :)

Spring was a time for renewal, generally speaking. Plants and flowers would find their way to the sunlight through the thaw of winter and bloom beautifully. Animals would emerge from their warm burrows and introduce their young to the bigger world.

Hiccup always knew there was a bigger world, he could see it stretch beyond the horizon when he and Toothless flew high into the sky on clear days—most of what he saw was ocean and sea, spotted with islands just like the one he lived on, but still he knew there was a bigger world out there.

For Berk, and its people—spring was a time of raid or rather a renewal of raiding. During the winter the bay was frozen and their goods dwindled so why not start off the new year by going out into that bigger world and taking some other's goods to kick off the celebration of melting snow?

It had still been chilly of course, the air nipped at everyone as a biting reminder not to get too used to the warmth for spring was also a tease of a season—often having a pleasant sunlit day turn into another slushy shower of what was the unholy offspring of snow and rain itself. Their only chance for comfort was to take shelter and pray that their ceilings had no leaks.

The russet-haired Viking sat atop his dragon, his knuckles white and clinging to the seat of the saddle as the dragon glided unseen through the darkened pre-dawn sky. The air was pleasant in temperature but he could begin to hear the not-so-pleasant distant roars and shouts of people, of metal clashing and then unseemly piercing screams. They were drawing nearer. To a place they were not supposed to be.

_A few weeks earlier, Hiccup sat on the floor of his lodge, roughly twisting a bolt in to his new prosthetic lower leg to keep it from wriggling apart The night fury laid next to him, with his long body curled around the lad comfortably as he napped—still apprehensive to step foot into the season that couldn't make up its mind to be warm or cold. Toothless hated the cold._

_Hiccup was angry, he was infuriated and it was an emotion so rare within him that he didn't know what to do with himself. He was the only Gods forsaken Viking his age left on the Island—and he shouldn't have been. He was not allowed to join the spring raid, just because he never finished final training. He thought that if he could construct a better prosthetic, then maybe he could prove to his father that he was up to it. He wasn't a seasoned warrior like Gobber, who had for many years proved to be an able fighter despite his missing limbs. But how did Gobber get the chance prove himself? There must have been one battle, one raid he had the chance to do so while the opportunity for Hiccup remained unseen._

_He and his dad had an all out, blow up argument a few days earlier, right before the rest of the Vikings departed. Everyone heard them shouting at each other, noting how alike in stubbornness they were. If it wasn't apparent before, it was slowly becoming known that Hiccup was truly 'his father's son.' Despite the obvious physical differences, the phrase was being more and more recently used by the people of Berk._

He refused to believe he was anything at all like his father. He actually never had his heart set on the act of raiding, he just wanted to go to make sure they would be okay. All of his friends had gone, and even Astrid—whom he was sure could take care of herself but still, something deep within him wanted to be there to protect her if anything should go wrong. The stupid raid had interrupted an important time in Hiccup's life. He finally had the lass that he had always wanted, a lass who equally was glad to have him. Now she was off fighting, and even though she was a capable warrior, he had missed her company and her death still wasn't altogether an impossibility. That thought caused a emotion of fear and anger to squeeze at his heart every time he reminded himself that she was only human.

He could see the dull orange glow of a fire, lighting the underside of a black smoke cloud that hung over the area. He took a breath and coughed, getting a lung-full of it. He was used to smoke, being practically in the blacksmith's stall everyday since he was big enough to fan a billows, but the air there was ten times too much. Toothless exhaled through his snout in a displeased snort.

"Let's get a little lower there bud," he instinctively shifted the foot of his prosthetic and leaned forward so that the under-wind flowed over Toothless's prosthetic tail fin, letting them to descend from their higher altitude. He was so very thankful to have the night fury as a friend. The dragon had proved to be more accepting and understanding than most humans. And though Toothless couldn't speak human nor understand the language he did understand the universal language of emotion and tones which was how the dragon and his human communicated.

_Hiccup shouted in frustration and threw the wrench across the room. It hit against the boiling pot that hung over the hearth._

_Toothless had perked up at the sound of metal clashing with metal and then turned a concerned eye on the young man. _

_Stoick the Vast, the chieftain of Berk's Viking Clan, and also known as Hiccup's dad, had been occupied at planning the spring raid as he was to lead it. Stoick was growing older but no weaker and no less bristled with anticipation at what he did best—being a Viking._

The Southern Islands had been the target—it had been planned since even before the last Viking raid. The Southern Islands contained a formidable foe—those faerie worshippers, those emerald enemies—the Celtic Clans. The rivalry had been established long ago.

Since then, every decade or so the Vikings from Berk would sail to join the conglomerate Viking clan alliance in fighting the Celts. A successful raid upon the Southern Islands brought riches and food a plenty for the Vikings. The battles were matched evenly, victory changing from side to side with each warring occurrence. The last time the Vikings tried raiding, they had been unsuccessful and returned home demoralized.

The Celts had stone fortresses that were difficult to breach and leather armor that even the sharpest spears had trouble penetrating—so Hiccup, caught in the excitement, had designed a new catapult system that could lift heavier tons and launch them further and faster. He hoped it could be used to break through those walls.

_And he thought for all his contribution and help, not even for that—but for the past three years, that Stoick would let him go with them. Hiccup __**deserved **__to go._

_That morning of their departure, Hiccup watched hopelessly while he stood on the stairs of his lodge as his father packed a rucksack with provisions._

"_I could, you know come with you and fight."_

"_You can't go, and that is final," Stoick gruffly replied, not looking up. He had said that line at least ten times to his son within the last two days. The ships were ready, the warriors were anxious, but in his opinion—his son was not._

"_Can't you make an exception?" Hiccup descended the stairs and approached his father from behind._

"_No. It's clear that you must pass all of Viking training to be included in the raids."_

"_But Dad, I really actually think that I've proven myself capable of handling battle-like circumstances—"_

"_I said __**NO, **__Hiccup!"_

"_**WHY NOT**__?"_

_He had finally erupted in an angry shout. He had tried to be patient and civil but his father's lack of cooperation was infuriating. _

_Stoick grabbed Hiccup by the front of his tunic, growling beneath a glare at his son's impudence, "Because I __**say**__ so."_

_Hiccup tugged out of his father's grip and smoothed out his shirt "Troll dung! I'm not a child anymore and you know I can handle whatever they throw at me!"_

"_Do I, Hiccup?" Stoick turned and pointed at his son accusingly, "Because from the last that I knew you pulled yourself out of training because of your leg—if you couldn't handle training what makes you think you can fight in a real battle?"_

_Hiccup bit the inside of his cheek with frustration before answering, "You know it was because the leg needed replaced. I built a new one, a __**better **__one! Just like those catapults you're taking with you—I built those!"_

_In his anger the iron base of the lad's prosthetic became hooked in a crack in the floorboard and he stumbled backward with a clatter. He sat up with embarrassment flooding in his cheeks, knowing that the action would be used against him to drive his father's decision further away from the one Hiccup wanted him to take._

"_So what if you built a better one? It can always be broken—and in battle you don't have time to fix what is broken. You can't raid with us son. You're staying here." Stoick said, though he had a touch of sympathy in his tone at his son's expression of heavy disappointment. Still he hauled his rucksack over his large shoulder and said, "I'll be back, probably."_

_Hiccup sat on the floor where he fell, still with a furrowed brow, "And I'll be here—maybe."_

Every part of him had been itching to go after them, but what was the use? As soon as his father saw him he would send Hiccup straight home. The only way to get there in time was by dragon, for the ships sailed far on good wind and when there was no wind they would bring out the oars and row the longboat in swift, steady strokes.

Hiccup knew Toothless would get a kick out of the far flight plus it was warmer in the Southern Islands and that was always a perk for the cold-blooded night fury.

The raid did not involve dragons. True, the dragons were fearsome and now a great asset to Berk but Stoick thought it best not to lead them so far south and risk their lives on behalf of Viking qualms. Vikings had been victorious without dragons before, they could do so again. So the dragons stayed around the island that Berk was located, handy for defense though if any other enemies decided to attack while the militia was away. In fact, there might have been more dragons than Vikings at the moment.

_Hiccup had put a hand on his knee and stood, while looking over his new prosthetic—made for rocky terrain and faster movement. It was a pretty awesome device, though sometimes he would try to wiggle his toes on that foot and nothing would happen—an odd sensation still after a few years of getting used to their absence. Instead, he'd wiggle the other ones, the five he had left to make up for the loss._

"_I can't stay here," he grumbled, mostly to himself and half to Toothless if the night fury happened to be listening. He felt a bump to his side and looked over his shoulder to see Toothless had been listening for he held his saddle in between his teeth, encouraging Hiccup. Hiccup sighed and took it in his hands, it was detached from the steering line and artificial tail fin as Toothless had stayed indoors most of the winter season and had no use for Hiccup to fly him. He felt the rough texture of the material, taking note that he was the one who had crafted it those three years ago, he was the one who had re-built a better leg, and those were the catapults that he had designed that were to be used in a raid that he wasn't a part of. He looked toToothless, who seemed to be waiting for an answer of sorts. Fly or don't? Obey or don't? Hiccup gave a small, lopsided grin to his dragon._

The ends of his hair whipped at his brow from beneath his helmet as they lowered in closer to see a battlefield. What had been intended as a raid was something much more complicated. He wished to have been there sooner but it was actually hard to stalk by air, a fleet of longboats out in the bigger world. From the look of matters below, a lot had gone wrong. He saw toppled structures, fires burning untamed and yet still the Vikings and Celts fought. They circled in the sky and no one bothered to look up as all were adamant on killing one another. The air was so smoky and the conglomerations of battle cries were too loud to notice the young Viking and his dragon above them all. He saw the broken rubble of wall that had been the north side of a fortress, secretly pleased to know his catapults had done their job well.

Though, all his pleasure was short-lived as he spotted the bodies that were sprinkled about the land—from both sides. He gulped, nearly everyone he loved was down there and he prayed—_prayed_ to Odin the All-father that they were still alive. How could Stoick have refused Hiccup's help to fight, and if not to fight at least to protect those he loved?

He managed to hear a particular roar of command through the noise—his father's voice. It sounded ragged, but still intent on a victory and boisterous as ever. It was the Vikings turn to win, they could not be deterred twice—or else they would lose their will to raid that land, that land that held many riches.

"Go!" Hiccup commanded and shifted his foot again, enabling Toothless to fly faster, farther away. He couldn't let his father see him—no—that wasn't right.

_Hiccup, you coward_. He held his breath in his cheeks and glared into the first rays of light. The sun was rising in the east, casting a clearer view on the carnage of the night.

"Turn around!"

His stomach pitched into his throat as Toothless made a quick in-air loop to oblige. He had to show his father that he could do it, prove to Stoick that he was wrong. Hiccup was not a broken Viking, he was a man—and he was able to handle what was on a battlefield.

They sped along the air until Hiccup saw the bright red beard of his father's as he pulled a sword blade from a downed Celt.

"Dad!" Hiccup called as they flew above the Chief's head.

Stoick looked up briefly then back to where his attention had been. Though, he just as quickly realized what he had seen and his eyes widened.

"Hiccup? What is he—what are you doing out here? Get down!" He commanded. Hiccup was looking for a spot to land Toothless. The majority of the battle had momentarily moved down the hill towards the fortress. Toothless perched on an overturn wagon and Hiccup unbuckled his foot from the stirrup.

"Stay low, Toothless," Hiccup ordered and the dragon crawled under the toppled wagon, keeping a lookout for enemies. "Dad! I'm here to help! What happened? It looks like you ran into trouble!"

"Hiccup! You can't be here!" Stoick started in, marching towards him. A horrible threatening glower fixed on his face. "Thor almighty you don't even have proper armor! Go home!"

"I have my breast-hat! I'm ready to fight!" He argued and pointed at the horned helmet on his head. He began to look around for any fallen weapons to use.

"Helmet!" Stoick corrected as he finally stood in front of his son and grabbed him hard by the shoulders. "I told you to stay in Berk, you deliberately disobeyed me! The consequences for this shall not go unpunished. When we get home—"

Hiccup raised his brows, not understanding why his dad had abruptly stopped chiding him. That was until Stoick slumped forward and Hiccup saw a lingering Celtic soldier with a dirt-streaked face withdraw a blade from Stoick's back. No one had seen him coming from behind the chieftain's massive shoulders, and also with such distractions.

"Dad?" Hiccup's eyes widened as he caught his father. He felt a sticky liquid and realized with horror it was his father's blood. The Celtic soldier began to dart away, not even paying the scrawny youth a second glance.

"Augh!"

He used all his might to keep Stoick from collapsing to the ground, but his father was just so—_vast_ that Hiccup's knees buckled and he had to carefully let his father to the ground. He saw the wound or the impact of it. A great red was spreading through his father's shirt. He began to undress the armor for it was of no use any more.

Panic set in his chest, though he had heard stories of vicious wounds inflicted upon Stoick the Vast he had never seen one actually come to pass on the man. Spitelout, his father's first general and own brother plus those left in his command came upon them from the South. They had fought their way through a brigade of Celts to report back to their leader.

"What has happened?" Spitelout cried at seeing Stoick crumpled on his stomach. Stoick had his teeth gritted as he struggled through breaths. No even bothered to ask how Hiccup suddenly appeared in battle. There was no time to wonder, but they knew with Stoick out of commission and Hiccup there, Hiccup was now the one in charge.

Hiccup looked at the ground, it was his entire fault—though he realized it wasn't just him that could be broken in battle, _anything_ could—even his own father. Hiccup would make time to fix it though, he _had _to. He knew his uncle was the best Viking to tend wounds, and so commanded, "Wrap his wound. I'm putting an end to this."

He took a breath and picked up his dad's sword. The sword was probably one he had reshaped during his time at the forge all last season, and if he lived through this it would be shaped again. He looked down to his injured father—if he should live through the sting, Hiccup would face the fury of Helheim itself. He'd gladly face his father's rage over his father's death any day though.

Hiccup fell to his knees in front of Stoick to face him in the eye, "I'm sorry Dad,"

The chieftain regarded his son and sighed through his teeth, "I am too." His tone was an utter shock to the lad. No doubt his father was furious at him, but there seemed to be regret in the man's tone, as though he knew all along Hiccup could handle himself in battle but refused to let him go for his own reasons.

Hiccup began to stand, to go, not knowing if he would succeed—not even knowing _how_ for he was but just one person in the middle of hundreds. Perhaps he was just a fool and always had been. He was a joke not fit for any kind of leadership on a battlefield, and three years ago was fluke. He was still a screw-up, still _useless_. A battle with dragons was vastly different from a battle with humans. Human enemies were wicked, they acted with deceit and could strategize fully. Dragons were clever in nature but at least they were true. Stoick reached up and grabbed his son's hand to stop him.

"If I die—"

"You won't, I promise you won't—you've claimed to have worse anyway. I'll stop this, somehow." He knew the gist of the next line his father would say, but cut him to it, "I'll be careful." He did not promise a victory for he knew that was well impossible at that point.

He said his words fast on an exhale and on his next inhale, gave a shrill whistle to get Toothless's attention. The dragon split apart the wood of the cart that he had taken safety under and rushed to Hiccup's side attentively.

A nearby Viking yelled in precaution, "Night fury!" and those around him scattered to make room.

Hiccup hoped to all the Gods that Stoick would pull through, for in the back of his mind—a dread rose, knowing he would become chieftain if his father expired—a responsibility he was far from handling. That's when it struck him that Stoick didn't allow him to raid because if they both had died in the fight, then no one would be alive to lead the Vikings of Berk. He had made Hiccup stay to ensure that someone would at least be left from the Haddock line. A deep feeling of guilt rose within his chest.

They could spot the soldier that had assaulted his father running down the hill towards the bigger battle, near the broken wall of the fortress—assumedly, to the rest of his fellow warriors. Hiccup felt a great rage replace the guilt in him and of how that man had stabbed his father in the back, a rather despicable and cowardly move; his eyes narrowed—knowing in his heart that the soldier would pay—he gripped the hilt of the sword tighter in his anger. Hiccup would make him pay.

Maybe, after all, the young Viking was more like his father than he thought.


	2. On the Other Side

There was a definite ache in her head. The sting could have been from anything; a head-butt, the butt of a broadsword, a flyby bola, a mace—it was any of those but she couldn't remember, mostly because it struck her when she wasn't looking.

She gave a groan before opening her eyes to only stare up at a stone ceiling. She was on her back, on what felt of prickliness—hay most likely. The ache swelled from her head to her toes as she sat up on her elbows; she saw the bars. Her heart sank greatly—so she had been taken prisoner.

No sooner had it sunk was it lit afire—she was enraged that she had let it happen. Ruffnut Thorston was _never_ supposed to be a prisoner. She itched the side of her face and found tiny scratches and scrapes that stung only a little. She jumped up, but not without feeling dizzy, something really had hit her in the head. Hard. She gripped the bars tightly and began screaming curses, some coherent, some not until she made someone appear.

It took a few minutes but the 'someone' in her case was a beefy man, a guard, a _Celt_—she could tell by his leather armor and general unpleasantness.

He spoke to her but it was in the language of the Celts. She couldn't understand him so she shouted even more. In return he reached through the bars grabbed one of her braids and yanked her head downward. It got her to quiet for a moment's peace but then she began screaming even louder.

What were they going to do with her? They had not killed her so she must be of some use. She paled suddenly, remembering what some Viking men did to females of opposing clans or enemies. She looked up at her captor to see him leering with an awful grin. She took a breath and shook those thoughts away, no—she wouldn't let them, someone would die before she let that happen.

The brute let go of her and she stumbled backward, softening her fall by landing on her arm. He laughed at her spectacle and then turned his attention towards his side. She heard more footsteps and involuntarily curled herself into a ball to be as small as possible but it was a hard task as she was one of the tallest female warriors. She wasn't frightened, no, she just—she was just anxious. She wanted to kill him but obviously was in no position to do so. She had no weapons, and even her helmet was missing.

She turned her attention to the voices. There was more Celtic language between the brute and whoever had approached. Though the Celtic tongue of the man unknown sounded very different from the guard's.

She was being referenced by the nod of her captor's head, obviously the topic of conversation between the two men. She hoped they'd get into a fight over who had rights to her and kill each other, saving her the trouble.

The brute nodded, unlocked the cell and motioned for her to come forward. She stood but didn't move toward him. He rolled his eyes with a grunt and to her surprise, left—but not before eyeing her hungrily. She crunched her fist, ready to fight for her life because the other man who yet hadn't shown himself was just around the corner—probably an officer of higher rank that could get whatever he wanted—anything except her.

She narrowed her eyes and scowled with anticipation. Finally he came into her view on the other side of her bars.

Her fists unraveled—no—her _mind_ unraveled as she stared at the tall, blonde man who was none other than Astrid's elder brother. He really did live up to his name of _Svenan the Suave_.

"Ruff," he nodded in greeting, apparently he knew she had been captured.

"Sven?" she choked, all at once overjoyed and furious to see him. _She _could take care of herself. She didn't _need_ rescued.

"I see they've given you quite appropriate lodgings, it's crude, rough—just as your style is."

This was no time to joke or flirt—there was a _battle_ going on and how in Helheim had Svenan gotten over enemy lines? Did this mean that the Vikings had gotten through the walls? She forgot he was even there as he had sailed on a different ship than her on the voyage over. Since when did he speak Celtic? Her mind was in the midst of trying to put itself back together at the unexpected circumstances.

He stepped forward and grabbed her wrist carefully, knowing she was as tame as a wildcat—"Come, are you hungry?"

"Starving," she grumbled, but did not feel like eating—her adrenaline was coursing and every part of her wanted to yank out of his grasp and rejoin her people on the field—to be victorious, which was all she ever wished to be.

What had happened? She tried remembering. This was her first raid, but she knew it was not normal. When they had pulled ashore, the Celts had immediately rushed at them in a premeditated counter attack, as though they had anticipated the exact moment of their arrival. It must have been by some black magic they knew, after all the Celts were rumored to practice magic. Ruff had been fighting in Hoark the Haggard's command until the third day, was it now still the third day? Was it later? She didn't know how long she had been gone to the world.

She let Svenan lead her through the underbelly of wherever they were, darkened corridors with dim pitch torches.

"They didn't hurt you did they?" he asked, glancing down at her but it was too dim to be for sure.

"Only if you count my head, it feels like Mjöllnir paid my skull a visit."

She thought she saw him smirk but didn't feel like punching him—yet. She had a burning curiosity to what was going to happen next. He opened the door they came to at the end of the corridor. They emerged through, into a better-lit room, a hall of sorts.

Ruff froze as if she had stepped foot in Niflheim—feeling so _wrong_ all of a sudden. Her and Sven were standing smack dab in the enemy's fortress, no Vikings were in the walls raiding, and yet no one—_no one_ was making a move to attack them. Instead, the people regarded them—well _Svenan_—with serious nods or Celtic greetings.

It took her a minute to roll around in her head but once she realized she acquired a deathly scowl and ripped her wrist from his grasp, "You _Traitor_!"

He dared to look startled at her accusation.

"You speak their language, you walk freely among them—you betrayed our people! How could betray your own—?" She began to rant hysterically but he engulfed her with his arms and half drug her around a corner to where there were less Celtic people to gawk at her display.

"Ruff, shhh!"

"You told them of our attack! You—you—!" she was angry, she was _so_ angry. If she hadn't had her spear taken she would have skewered his heart on it. She _loathed_ the eldest Hofferson child with more loathing than she ever had for anything before because it wasn't only that he was a traitor, it was because of _whom_ he betrayed them to.

"You align yourself with the savages that killed my father!"

She heaved in breaths of air and tried struggling away from him but his hold was tight—though trying to restrain Ruffnut at that moment was like trying to contain a furious windstorm.

"And how many of their fathers have _we_ killed, Ruff? How many brothers, uncles, cousins, husbands, lovers and sons have we destroyed of theirs? Many. Just as many if not more." Svenan replied in a biting tone and gave her a terse shake—admitting to all his treachery.

She stopped struggling just to think about it. How could she find any sympathy for the Celts? They were the ones that had put an axe into the chest of her father those many years ago—though somewhere even now a young Celtic lass was probably weeping over the body of her fallen father. Ruff shook her head and closed her eyes for a few seconds to get it together but still, when she opened them again to glare at Sven they were filled with involuntary tears. He had made her think about it—to put a human emotion on those enemies she regarded as nothing but savages. She hated them for what they did but she was no better.

She pulled out of his grasp as it had loosened. She held her wrist and refused to look at him, "I _hate_ you, Sven. If I get out of this alive you will have more to worry about than a broken nose from me."

He only stared at her, a disappointment in his eyes to which she was only disgusted at—how could he have ever thought to convince her that what he had done was okay? _Especially_ her. Maybe Hiccup was soft enough to forgive such things but never Ruffnut, and _especially_ not Stoick the Vast. Svenan was a dead man.

"Where are we?" she asked in a growl.

"Safe. For now," Sven replied and began to move again, "Follow me if you want something to eat."

She begrudgingly did so, keeping enough distance for a gronkle to pass between them the whole way. How would she escape the fortress? How would she escape _him_?

They came to a dining hall where there appeared to be a row of Celt nobility at a table.

She felt nervous at seeing them, obviously the ones with power among her enemies—the Celtic lords. They were boasting loudly toward each other in their own language but upon seeing Sven, they raised their glasses to him. They were not admirable—at least _her_ leader was out in the battlefield, these cowards simply sat back and let their subjects fight for them.

He nodded and took a seat at their table, grabbing Ruff quickly and gesturing to her while speaking Celtic, most likely explaining her to them before she sat in the seat next to him. Sven began to converse with them in their tongue. Ruff felt completely isolated as she started to eat bits of the food in front of her, though her appetite had all but vanished. She didn't even look well enough to be among such people, she was dirty, hurt, and if they saw it, they ignored it. _Savages_.

"Your husband has been very valuable to our people."

Ruff heard it spoken from the other side and turned, startled to see a lass about her age. She understood her, though the words were said in a peculiar accent. She was just about to ask what the wench was talking of when she quickly realized Sven must have introduced her as his wife, how else would they have let him snatch her away from the dungeons? She stabbed the heel of her boot into his toes in a brief act revenge, causing his knee to jerk into the table. He opened his mouth but caught himself before he could shout, withering into a passive smile at the Celtic Lords. Ruff turned her attention back to the Celtic lass, and ignored his glare cast at her.

"Believe me, I know how _useful_ he has been to the Celts. Who are _you_?" she nearly growled, wondering how this girl could speak her language when the rest of the Celts didn't.

"I am Brynna, the Lord MacVaren's daughter. I'm surprised Svenan has not mentioned me to you yet."

Ruff didn't know or care if that meant something special, for all she knew the girl next to her was her enemy. Though seeing her smile, Ruff knew at once that the noble that sat beside her was one woman that had not been untouched by Svenan's charm which only grossly extended his reputation. She could see through the act that the lass was gloating, provoking whom she thought to be Svenan's wife. Either way, Ruffnut had the urge to punch her.

"Charmed," Ruff replied with acid sarcasm, and subdued the urge and focused back to her meal.

Her appetite must have reappeared or else her logic told her body to get as much nourishment while it could for she ate the rest of the food. She ate it quite fast as if at any moment it could be taken from her and then she, herself was taken by Svenan afterwards; he led them to a room meant for sleeping chambers.

"So are you going to let me go?" She snarled.

He narrowed his eyes, "So you can inform them to what I have done?"

"Damnned right I will. You are despicable."

"Ruff, let me explain—"

"NO! There's nothing to say. You are a _traitor_, and I don't talk to traitors. " She saw him visibly slump at her declaration, and knew his guard was down, "I _kill_ them."

She leapt at him suddenly, thrusting the palm of her fist into his face—though he had been taught by their previous encounters to anticipate that move and barely dodged it. Instead she struck his cheek. He fell backwards onto the bed and she leapt onto him, screaming and digging her knees into his ribs. He shouted in pain but easily overturned her at grabbing her arms. Her will of iron could not put the weight on her lithe body that she needed. They ended up in a switched position, with Svenan pinning her to the mattress by her wrists. She violently struggled and shouted curses at him. He gave a flick of his fingers to the tip of her nose, which surprisingly stung and caught her off-guard. She stared at him for a brief moment, and then glowered.

"I will say what I have to say, and you will listen."

She clenched her jaw and averted her eyes, annoyed by the tickle of a piece of hair that had fallen into her eye from their tussle.

"As you know I have been on many voyages and this is one place I came to, I stayed with these people and learned a great deal about them. They live like we do, though they do worship differently—they don't wish to fight and I was hoping we could establish a truce and open a free trade arrangement with them as they have so many assets to offer."

He paused and she still did not look at him, to acknowledge what he was saying.

"Ruff, understand that my intentions were good—I warned them of the spring raid on my last visit so they may rightfully defend themselves. Hopefully our people can come to a peace."

She listened, but still it did not soften her hatred toward him. He was an opportunist. He wasn't a Viking. Vikings never wished for peace. They took what they needed and did not give a damn about their victims. Also, she found it hard to believe the either side would come to an agreement as evidence by the many bodies she saw, and caused to be out on the battlefield. Svenan was a fool to ever believe it could be.

She hated how he had opened her eyes to her own treachery of slaughtering other people's family members. If he hadn't been there, she would still believe like she had before—a warrior's mindset of nothing but the will to kill.

"It would have been better if you had left me in the dungeon," she mumbled, and then looked at him with a hard, stormy blue stare, "Astrid doesn't even know, does she?"

He matched her stare just as hard, with a slight disappointment still in his eyes. He did her the favor of swiping the itchy piece of pale blonde hair from her face and finally let her go, and couldn't meet her gaze any more "No."

"Well you're screwed."

"I suppose so."

She found his tone annoyingly nonchalant for all his treachery and the certain consequences. She sat up and pushed her braids behind her shoulders. He turned to leave, "You may sleep here, I'll be in the next chamber. Don't try to kill me."

That was an idiotic request.

"Svenan, why did you even pull me out of the dungeon in the first place?"

He paused and then grinned while looking at her, a hint of whatever made him charming evident in his eyes, "Isn't it obvious?"

Then he slipped through the door that connected the chambers, without any further clues. She blushed—only because she was feeling rather heated from her anger and the fight and wondered if Sven would have done for any other girl what he did for her. He was always such a lady-pleaser; it was hard to decide if his actions were true. The ache in her body had ebbed slightly as she lay back on the stuffed feather mattress but the prick of horrible guilt finally stung her, when thinking of all those she had destroyed the last three days on the battlefield. How could she not though? They would just as soon kill her if she had not gotten to them more quickly.

She hoped her brother was all right, though as much of an annoyance he was she would never want him ended. She hoped her friends were still alive, Snotlout, Astrid, Fishlegs—_Fishlegs_—she had a sudden flashback to the weeks prior when they were traveling by sea and they had been playing his game of _Dens & Dwarves_ when they had nothing to do. Battle was great and fun in pretend but not so much in the real world. They were taught not to feel in battle, and she was starting to fail miserably as that guilt caused tears to pool in her eyes as she fell asleep.

In the morning, or perhaps it was still that night—a loud noise jolted Ruff out of sleep. There was a great shaking followed by many vibrations underneath her. The stones in the wall shifted slightly. She gasped, realizing they had finally gotten the new catapults set up. The Vikings had hardly any time to defend themselves when they reached the shore, so catapult preparations had been horribly delayed.

The Vikings were destroying the walls! She scrambled up and out the door seeing the fortress guards occupied with the sudden breach. She banged her fist on the door to the room next to her, calling Svenan's name—to get his attention. There was no answer. She grabbed the latch and twisted it open, emerging into a darkened room that was void and always had been of Svenan's presence.

"Son of a troll…" she cursed, realizing he was a dual traitor. He had gone back out to the field to cover his rear in case the battle should happen to switch in the Viking's favor—which now it obviously was with Hiccup's catapults at work. She had remembered seeing him doodling designs last winter but never imagined they would be put to use so quickly.

She was about to leave, to find her way back to her comrades but something caught her eye—something lying on the bed she had been sleeping in that she had missed when she first woke. She approached the bed and saw a flower with blue petals lying on the crude quilt. It was a forget-me-not, and she knew it was meant for her because when they were children Sven had given her the same kind. She had eaten it—even then showing she had aversion to the handsome Viking. She picked it up and stared at it, a fresh bloom from the outside—the battlefield. There might have been flowers on those hills now spotted with the fallen, but Ruff had never stopped to pay attention. No one had, they only had time to fight. She held it to her nose and closed her eyes to breathe its scent—a horrible longing for Berk filled her. It was spring there, and the forget-me-nots were just as vividly spotting the grassy hills outside of her village. Would she ever see that place again?

Sven must have known she'd come looking for him even though she rightly shouldn't have—unless it was to kill him, which she rightly _should_ have. The forget-me-not was a sign to tell her he was still alive, perhaps an apology.

She frowned, so much a part of her wanted to eat it or rip it's pretty blue petals off the stem but just in case this was not to be her last living night, she tucked it in her belt—telling herself it was to remind her of Sven and what he had done. She could try to tell everyone the truth but knowing that he was probably out there now, fighting on her side—they wouldn't believe her and not over someone as persuasive as Svenan Hofferson.

She fearlessly ran through the fortress, to the outside to see it was still dark. No one paid her any mind, as they were all confused themselves at the falling debris of stone and mortar. A stone nearly crushed her, and the shouting around her was deafening. She saw the frightened looks on their faces, their panicked screams—their tears. These just weren't guards and soldiers. These were the families that lived inside the walls.

A small Celtic child, perhaps four or five years old was crying and hugging to a toy—looking every which way for direction or an adult. They all heard another loud collision of boulder upon stone and Ruff watched in horror as the wall in front of her began to collapse fully—in a cascade of stone that would bury them all in seconds. She quickly grabbed up the child, less he be flattened by the heavy rocks and ran from the showering debris. A piece of rock slammed into her arm and she fell, the child gripped to her breastplate tightly. She cushioned their fall with her shoulder but felt an internal crack and then a searing pain. There was a sudden heat and she saw the stones had toppled the fire bowls that kept the outside alit and the flames began to snake through the debris, igniting them.

She saw the untamed night ahead of her, through the devastated wall, to where the battlefield was. Men in boots ran past her, their heels clattering on the stone—charging with weapons to defend themselves from anyone who tried to enter. No one made a move to stop the rising flames. The child was still crying, probably terrified. The child's tears brought her attention back to him. She disliked children, they were whiny, annoying, snot-ridden and thankfully, her mother told her she probably could never have her own; that she would die during childbirth as she was so thin and her hips were too narrow. _Definitely not a childbearing body_.

However she looked the child over to see if he was hurt and he only stared at her wide-eyed before burying his face into her shoulder shyly. It hurt.

A Celtic woman came upon them, babbling incoherently in a language Ruff could not understand but by the woman's tone and shaky smile she could tell that she was receiving a great thanks. This child was hers, and Ruffnut had saved him. The woman kneeled down and Ruffnut gladly let her hold of him go and stood up while holding her shoulder, which was throbbing from the hit it took from the stone and her landing. If she lived through this she just might have some mauling on her shoulder to proudly show later in life.

However, her mind was panicked, for if she returned she knew she could not bring herself to fight anymore—she might be slaying that child's father, or any child's father and it tore at her. She remembered the heartbreak of losing her own. The sting of the loss of her father was like an old scar, and she realized no matter how many Celts she did kill it would never, _never_ bring him back or heal it. She hated to agree with him but perhaps Svenan was right all along, perhaps it would be best if they settled on peace.

Though, it was rather unlikely and she thought to blame that gods forsaken headache for her change in belief, for it had reappeared once more. Everything in her and around her seemed shattered, and she knew for certain that raid was over for her.

**A/N**: _As I stated before, the point of these character sketches is to show a transition of some sort that happens now that these characters reach adulthood, I hope it was evident in this chapter. I have a habit of writing Ruff's darker than the others, I don't know why..._

_Oh, hey, there's Svenan again. This chapter kind of opened the floodgates for him as in the last comp series he showed up sparingly. What do you guys think? Hate him? Like him somewhat? Can't decide? Questions? Comments? Concerns? You know where to throw them :)_


	3. Altered Statistics

Fishlegs was never one to cause a fight, or say a bad word against anyone. He was always the logical thinker, and the statistics hoarder. However, once in battle his comrades found out that the Fishlegs they knew had disappeared.

He let terrible shouts tear from his throat as he rushed at the enemy, did not feel the cuts or scrapes of those blades or arrows that pierced him—for not long after the perpetrator was extinguished permanently. Fishlegs was a force to be reckoned with. Especially, _especially_ when he learned they had lost Ruffnut. He didn't know what hit him, but it must have been a triple dose of bloodlust than usual because he charged off down the hill before Tuffnut could stop him. He didn't know how many he destroyed but knew it was never enough. They had taken his friend.

He was struck with a heavy loss for she was the only other person who routinely would join him in his favorite role-playing game that he invented and named _Dens & Dwarves_.

He always had trouble finding willing players and then he turned it into a manner of drinking game and it picked up in popularity, especially during the ale-games. However, Ruffut would stop by on those lingering, slow winter afternoons and ask to play and he was always delighted to oblige her. They'd spend those hours in his parents' basement and they often didn't even play the ale-version. She just seemed pleased with narrating her kills of the imaginary foes, and the anticipation of what dice rolls would render. She told him that playing the game killed time in wait for the spring raid. No one more than she had looked forward to it.

But now she was gone, dead. Ever since Snotlout had found and brought her helmet back to them—it had been on the ground, bloodied and dented, and there was no sign of the tall girl.

Fishlegs might have broken a Celt's neck, but he kept on charging through—not knowing anything but his anger. He wouldn't be able to tell them that their swords were a -3 against his numb frame or that his hands would crush their windpipes at a +12 strength, all he knew was that he was at 100% destruction.

He easily pushed an assaulting Celt backwards with his shield in front of him, and while the man staggered, Fishlegs cracked the shield against the soldier's head and the man fell, unmoving.

The wall of the fortress had only been down for an hour or so, still the Celts were defending the loss fairly well. He looked up to see another boulder from a catapult fly overhead and crash into a tower. It toppled as though it were made of sand. He shielded himself from the smaller debris of that collapse. He fought off a barrage of attacks as he stepped through the crumbled foundation of what had been the north wall. Pretty soon, the rest of Hoark's command joined him in formation and they successfully caused the Celts to fall back just a bit more. Now they were inside. Now they could finally do what they came there to do—raid.

"Fish!"

The call of his name broke him out of his berserking-daze. His eyes cleared of their fury and he turned to see who had said it. The voice was faintly familiar.

There was a lot of dust, debris, and smoke in the air. Also the darkness didn't help for him to see any better—but a tall female figure emerged from it all. She must have been a ghost for she was pale, and most of all because she was dead. There was just no way she could be alive, not if she was absent of her weapons. Not in the middle of this. She was dead, he had accepted the fact that she was dead, but upon seeing that form he dared to hope otherwise.

"Fish!" She called out again, and stumbled forward. She was dirty, her hair was tangled, and she was holding her shoulder. Though she tried to keep a brave face, he could see the tiny twist of pain in her features.

His saliva dried in his mouth, "Ruffnut?"

"Yes! Who else would I be, idiot?" She glared and stood before him.

He threw down his shield and wrapped his huge arms around her, lifting her off her toes slightly, "I thought you we dead!"

"OW!" she screamed. Obviously he had hugged her too tightly. He let her go and she punched him as if it could hurt him. "No, I'm fine and you'll be the one to be dead soon if you do that again!"

He should have known better than to hug her, for she was still a wildcat of a girl—untamed, crazy, _dangerous. _Still, something had compelled him to forget such faults and embrace her, for after all he had thought she died.

She once again held her shoulder. He could see was not _fine_ and why was she heading in the opposite direction? He thought she'd start right up where she had been the last he had seen her—weaving through the enemy, stabbing her spear repeatedly at them until it broke their leather armor—as if wanting to collect their organs for a kebab cookout. She had been enjoying it so much that it was almost disturbing.

"Where are you going? The battle is this way!" He called and plucked his shield from where he had dropped it.

"I've got to find Hoark!"

Fishlegs's heart took a dive, reminded of what she didn't know, "Hoark is dead!"

He _knew_ Hoark had died for sure as he had seen Hoark in his last moments. Hoark the Haggard had been set upon by the Celts during battle, before the wall was breached. He had been shouting battle cries in Thor and Odin's names but a Celt's sword had found its way to the commander's throat and silenced him. The scene would haunt Fishlegs, no doubt for the rest of his days but Hoark certainly was already in Valhalla with the valkyries and drinking mead, watching eagerly to what the outcome of this battle would be.

He saw Ruff take a shaky, deep breath—in a quick mourning of the loss of their superior before asking, "So who _is_ in charge?"

"Your brother!"

That got her eyes to widen in surprise; she nodded and then twisted around beginning to run back towards the command. Fishlegs knew there was a battle to be fought but on the other hand he couldn't let his best player be taken from him again, for real. He ran after her, watching her back in case any Celt decided to attack her when she was injured and unarmed.

Even hurt, Ruffnut ran as though he wind carried her, loose strands of hair threaded around her shoulders as she ran up the hill. Fishlegs lost sight of her as he was burly and his mass slowed him down.

When he reached the command, the twins were arguing. It was a common occurrence but he thought they could make an exception for this particular circumstance of battle

"Stop it, call your command off!" Ruff shouted and shoved her brother with her good arm.

"You can't just come back from the dead and boss me around! Hoark left _me_ in charge and I'm not calling anything off!"

"He only left you in charge because _I_ wasn't here!"

The new commander saw Fishlegs approach and looked a bit relieved. He seemed to have enough to worry about other than fighting with his sister. "Right now I _command_ that you go back to the boats."

Ruff stumbled back in startled outrage, "I'm not going anywhere!"

"Yes you are. You're going back to the boats. Don't think you can hide the fact that you're injured from me."

She punched him in response.

"OW! I am hurt! I am very much hurt!" Tuff held his jaw and winced, then his eyes snapped open, "Fish, take her back to the boats and make sure she stays there will ya?"

"I hate you! If you're so hurt, _you _should go back to the boats and let me command!" Ruff attempted to assault her brother again but Fishlegs lunged forward and caught her, then threw her over his shoulder, held her there, and began to make his way back to the shore where the boats were.

"Put me down!" she demanded but Tuffnut was in charge of their command now and Fishlegs wasn't going to disobey orders.

She tried hitting his back with her fists, even with her injured side but she ended up screaming in pain and then wilted into him as one of his mother's candles in the heat of the sun.

She must have tricked herself into thinking that she could actually cause Fishlegs pain, though she had caused him a pain deeper than she would ever know when he thought she was gone for good.

Anyone who had been injured enough not to fight could go back to the boats to tend to their wounds. If someone were injured too greatly to make it back by themselves, well then may the valkyries take them as they had served bravely in battle.

Ruff would have never gone back to the boats on her own, though she was able. Fishlegs thought her a proud and foolish girl at times, but of course would never outright tell her.

"Put me down," she tried again but her voice had lost all of its obnoxious commanding and was muffled into his shirt. She was too weak to fight anyhow, so he did release her. They were nearly at the shore anyway.

As soon as her feet touched the ground she kicked Fishlegs in his shin and started to run back toward the battle.

"Ruffnut!" Fishlegs shouted, scrambling to catch her. He didn't want Tuffnut to yell at him for losing her.

She didn't answer but kept on running. He would never catch her; she was just too fast for him. Luckily, one of the gods felt as though the situation should be in his favor for Ruffnut tripped, stumbled, and fell to the grass. He never noticed the landscape, how lush and beautiful it was though at the moment he could barely see it. He could smell the grass though, heavy with the night dew and smell of the southern spring season.

He caught up to her and stood over her, "What's wrong with you? Has Loki scrambled your brain?" He bent over and easily scooped her up into his arms.

"You don't understand! No one understands!" She wriggled desperately, trying to be free once more, to which he only held on tighter. He grabbed her chin to make her stop and look at him.

"What in Asgard are you talking about?"

"We're killing _people_!"

He would have thought she was attempting to make him laugh, and he would have laughed if she didn't look so forlorn suddenly. She really was crazy—he remembered the dent in her helmet and figured something had knocked the sense out of her.

"You like killing though Ruff," he reminded her. For as long as he remembered it was among her favorite subjects to talk about or issue threats for. Those gritty narrations of how she defeated the striped cavern serpent in one of their longer _Dens & Dwarves_ campaigns stuck in his mind.

She stared at him for a moment but then pushed back in attempts to get away, which caused her to yell with a painful howl. He kept his hold on her and was determined to get her to the boats. She was biting her lip to keep from screaming out more when he looked down to her. He finally made it to one of their clan's longboats. A few Vikings were already nursing their injuries. Some had painful arrowheads lodged in their arms, others had long gashes that would turn to impressive scars if they lived through the battle and the wound didn't re-open and become infected. They noticed that sun was starting to rise, causing slivers of light to show through the cracks in the wood.

He set Ruff down on a bench, ready to aid her in anyway.

"What are your injuries?"

She crunched over, "Tell Tuff he has to call it off. We have to tell Stoick—" she mumbled but couldn't finish because she made yet another yell of anguish and held her arm close to her, which tightened her shoulder.

She wasn't making any sense, and she wasn't helping with her nonsensical mumblings, so he gathered her up and removed her armor, wanting to get to the bottom of her ailment. He knew that her pain came from somewhere in her left arm, that probably extended to her shoulder.

"I'm going to help you," he said in precaution to what he was about to do, just in case she thought he was trying to be sly. However, no one took Fishlegs for that kind of a male in the first place.

When she didn't say anything, he gently took her arm and tried sliding it out of her sleeve. She sucked in a breath but couldn't hold it—she screamed once more. She was a banshee. He let it drop, startled, and that didn't help her shouts quiet at all. He sighed and brought out his dagger, unsheathed it and cut her tunic at the sleeve, slicing through the stitches her mother had so carefully sewn. Ruff held her face in her other hand, her mind was occupied—somewhere else, probably to focus on anything but the pain.

He rolled the back of her tunic up until he could see her shoulder, the lanterns only provided dull light but the bruising around her shoulder was clearly distinguished against her fair skin. Also something was pointing outward under her skin, something that made it look unnatural.

"Your shoulder is dislocated."

"What are you going to do about it?" She mumbled ungratefully—bored-like.

He was tired of her strange behavior. He was supposed to help her; he _wanted_ to help her and would rather have the old Ruff start to threaten him than hear the complacent mumbles of what was sitting in front of him. He abruptly grabbed her shoulder in one hand and then pushed with all his might into the bone, the blade—which after a few moments of her renewed screaming, snapped back into place.

"What did you do that for?" she whirled around and he could see a sparkle in her eyes. Or were those actual tears? He never remembered her to cry, ever. Not for pain, embarrassment, defeat, or even fear.

"I fixed it."

She bent her arm, gave a tender wince and then finally glared, "Yeah, well it still hurts."

He saw her gaze travel to the metal gauntlet on his wrist, "You're bleeding."

He wiped at it with his finger, "Nah, that's not _my_ blood."

She actually glared at him, which stung. Would she rather have him bleed than their enemies?

She fiddled with her arm, scraping off dirt that was practically embedded in her skin until she could bathe again. Next, her fingers found a bug-bite and she picked at it until it bled. She must have known she couldn't run from him again so didn't say anything, and in return he _couldn't_ say anything—only watch her, noting her mannerisms.

If he had to sit down and draw up the statistics on Ruffnut he presumed she would be at seven strength and a ten speed, plus a ten in vocal volume.

He stood up and made his way to the extra barrels of ale. They had been drinking ale along their sea voyage. Fishlegs had lost his weight in water and was perpetually thirsty for the first week, and so developed a small taste for the stout ale for sake of his thirst. He took a small mug and filled it, taking a swig. He peered over at the tall girl—she was still sitting in the position he had left her, still with a thoughtful frown. Just what was she thinking? She had said to '_call it off_' and she surely couldn't mean the raid, she really _was_ crazy if that was her intent. Tuffnut didn't even have that power.

He refilled the mug and brought it to her, "You know, Tuffnut was devastated when we thought you had been lost."

That comment got her attention back to him, she looked at the mug and grabbed it—drank the contents. After guzzling the last of it she _hiccup-_ed, not a phrase used to describe a Hiccup-_esque_ action, but the actual noise. She had drunk it too fast. She didn't reply to his words, something was wrong with her, something was _really _wrong with her. She had once, surprisingly, opened up to him on a winter's night as he walked her home, why couldn't she now? He scrutinized her "What happened to you?"

"Everything."

"That's not an answer."

"Why are you even asking? What do you want? Go! Go fight, go _kill_. Don't waste your time with me." He heard the waver in her sarcastic tone as she adjusted her position to half-turn her back on him. At least the bite in her tone was back in her. "And you can tell Tuff I'm never speaking to him again."

He probably should have gone back, he was one of their best berserkers but he couldn't think of berserking now—not as he stared at her, and inwardly wondered why he was. He didn't stare at girls that often, mostly because they were always moving around. Yet something struck familiar when he was gazing at her like that. Yes, she was calm, far from serene but when Ruff sat still she really was quite striking, even now with her hair in disarray and dirt on her skin and with half her tunic rolled up her back.

He stood again and tried to clear his thoughts in preparation for the mindset of charging enemies, "Promise not to come back? Tuffnut will have my head if you wander into the field." Though it wasn't just that, he didn't want her to get injured again.

"Whatever," was all he heard. He sighed and did turn, willing to tear his eyes away but as he did he saw her finally make a movement. His body tensed, preparing to chase after her but she had only lifted something out of her belt—a flower. She held it up to her face and buried her nose into the petals. Then she ripped the petals off.

"I thought you were leaving?" she growled, and noticed he was still standing there, trying to make sense of her actions. She must have hated flowers.

"Uh…" he babbled, at a loss.

His answer, or lack thereof was saved by a Viking that suddenly rushed into the vicinity, shouting that the battle was at an end.

Fishlegs saw Ruff visibly pale, if it were even possible as she had pale skin to begin with.

"How? Did we capture the Celtic Lords?" a nearby Viking with a horrendous bludgeon wound asked.

"Yes! Well, sort of…"

Leaving that bit of tantalizing news hanging, the messenger was off to proclaim the news to the next longboat of injured.

So Fishlegs didn't need to go back if it was over. He wondered how it had happened so quickly though. It had taken them three days to get past the Celtic warriors, and within three hours of the wall breach, the Vikings had successfully captured the fortress and it's lords? At least now they would gain a world of riches. Fishlegs only assumed they had been victorious, though the messenger did not specify if it were so.

He sat next to Ruffnut; he figured she would be smiling, happy to be victorious. She would often throw her hands in the air with triumphant glee when she rolled the dice number high enough to defeat a valley troll or den serpent, even to cross the river without her dwarf character drowning.

She was still as a stone though, her back turned on him as well as the world.

"Ruff, tell me what's wrong," he nudged her slightly.

She hesitated but slowly turned around and the look in her eyes was something else—something he couldn't even begin to describe. "I _don't_ want to kill anymore."

He had to raise a puzzled brow, not expecting such admittance from her, doubtful even, not confidant in if she knew what she spoke of. Still he answered cleverly, "Well you don't have to because the raid is over."

She shook her head back and forth so vigorously her braids whipped around her face, "No! I _never_ want to kill again. Not on the next raid, not during the next battle, I can't. I—"

That was when she crumbled into tears and he could only hold her to keep her from collapsing fully—his thoughts bemused, saddened, and awkward all at once. She choked out a sob and began to mumble about how 'she was an awful person.' He knew she wasn't the type of girl to go fishing for compliments, and he thought he knew her to be one that wouldn't start sobbing into him. There was a lot he was learning about her though, and a lot he had thought wrong.

He pulled her up and held her away, making sure he was looking straight at her and that he had her attention. She sniffled, a blinked her tears back. Her freckles were quite distinguished above her blotchy cheeks.

"Listen to me. You are great. You are a good friend, a good fighter, and you are imaginative, skilled, and—" _beautiful,_ his mind injected an adjective but he caught himself before actually saying it.

She was looking up meekly, though with a slight frown to why he had stopped his list. It was because he realized something—a reason to why he felt so devastated at the thought of her death, to why he felt as though he had to cheer her up, to ease her pain, and to why he had stopped talking to gawk at her and his heart did a little flip-flop as the morning sun caused the pale gold of her hair to shine—he _felt_ for her. He felt for her with a far greater feeling than friendship.

A deep blush crept across his cheeks as he became conscious that she had her shirt half-off and he was in the midst of holding her. He quickly let her go and cleared his throat. How could this be? She was crazy, she was downright insulting and mean for the most part but again, he noted that the battle had changed her. He didn't know how, or for how long, but she was definitely changed from when they had first arrived in the Southern Islands.

He stood from where he sat, flustered—trying to get a handle on such an unknown emotion within himself because he was changed as well, but it had nothing to do with the battle and all with the lass who sat before him.

**A/N**: _Is this dramatic fluff? I know the battle is off focus for awhile but I think it was necessary to set Fishlegs away from it to observe his inner battle, or a new self-discovery, or a Ruffscovery. Fishleg's has definitely grown since he was an awkward teen in dragon training, still a bit awkward and shy, mostly confused, but you can blame any of his boldness on being in the midst of a battle._

**Extra note**: T_hese are meant to be character-focused chapters. There will probably be historical, military inaccuracies for those who read and have a specific knowledge of ye olde battles. However I may remind you that if HTTYD caused you to suspend your belief concerning dragons, people named 'Snotlout' or 'Hiccup' among other things, then you can suspend your beliefs just a little if you happen to notice that tactics or descriptions aren't historically sound. But thank you to those who point it out, it's always a pleasure to learn new things_


	4. Wins and Losses

Breaths had never been so ragged, hearts had never beaten so fast, and muscles had never ached so painstakingly much—not for the warriors who were new to battle. No matter how prepared they had thought they were, or tough, or brave, or how well they had done in training—they never expected to feel so little or insignificant when they saw their comrades fall, or so exhilarated and triumphant when they, in turn caused the enemy to fall.

The enemy had retreated back into their fortress after hours of colliding with the Vikings. They had lost some but the Celts had lost more—not that it was a victory. The Celts had their fortress, while the Vikings could only hide behind their shields.

"How many have we lost?" Hoark the Haggard asked.

"Eighteen for sure. Three have hauled their selves back to the boats. The rest are unaccounted for either wounded or still out there fighting," Tuffnut answered. He looked around the group of his fellow warriors; the number of them was less than it had started out. He couldn't see his sister but instead of panic, he felt relieved for she would be one of the ones out there fighting. She had to be. There was no other fathomable option. Not all of them were gathered. Hoark had tried to recollect them for reports for the time being as they had driven the faction of Celts they had been fighting back into the walls. It wouldn't be for long, a new section would replace them. There had been near fifty total in Hoark's command, at least that was the way it was divided out. Snotlout, Fishlegs, and his sister were assigned to Hoark's command, which in turn was acting under Stoick the Vast's orders to take the fortress. He did not know where Astrid was stationed, and Hiccup was confined to stay at home, in Berk, for not completing the final training needed to partake in Viking raids. Tuffnut, initially felt bad for Hiccup for not being able to be a part of the raid, but now nearly into the third day of blood and battle, Tuffnut inwardly thought Hiccup had it easy.

Sweat dripped off his brow as he cupped water from a nearby stream into his palm and swished it back into his mouth. His throat had grown dry and he was famished but there was no time to eat. He had anticipated a quick victory from the older warrior's stories but the enemy had attacked with an elastic defense, which was still unexplainable and rather remarkable on their end. When Vikings raided, they did it quickly, and never formally declared it—striking unexpected—and near impossible to anticipate. With the Celt's move, the Vikings had to jump to defend themselves when they were supposed to be the initial attackers.

Tuffnut made a disgusted face at the taste of the water, mixed with silt, much preferring ale to which he had drank the entire voyage south.

"Arrows!" one of theirs shouted and Tuff looked up, but of course could see nothing as the evening set in—still he brought his shield over his head at an angle just in time to hear men shouting and arrowheads thump into the wood of his cover. One struck his thigh and he cursed loudly, crouching down even further. When the thudding stopped he quickly tugged the arrow out by its shaft, then ripped off a strip of fabric from the bottom of his tunic that hung from underneath his armor, and wrapped it tightly to stop the trickle of blood. He stood, ignoring the pain for the time being. Those arrows were a sign that the new wave of Celts would emerge. He wiped a piece of his blonde hair off of his sweaty cheek; he had tied up the rest at the nape of his neck so it couldn't be grabbed or caught on any brush during his fighting. The night was temperate, a pleasant air but underneath his rampaging heart pace and flushed skin it felt too heated. He wished for the cold of winter, something he never would have wished for otherwise.

Hoark grabbed his arm as he went past to reposition himself at the front of the phalanx. He had always wanted glory, and would be honored to go down in a fighting, tangled mess with a savage Celt.

"Thorston," Hoark growled.

"Yes sir?" Tuff hunched his shoulders, wondering if he were in trouble. He hadn't exactly followed orders in the last fray, he was supposed to stay back but he ran with his sister and fought through the front line with shouts of vengeful bloodlust. They were fighting not only for victory, to gain the riches that the raid would render—but also in memory for their father who ultimately died due to a battle wound inflicted by this same enemy. He had lost track of his sister in that fray but figured she was fine on her own—wildly maneuvering through the enemy leaving their bodies in her wake.

"You have been an a true asset during the past day, and so I want to promote you to my second command. If anything happens to me, it'll be up to you to continue the fight."

Tuff was awestruck, for he never expected to be chosen for such an honor. He always figured Snotlout would be the one to take the position, as he was a superior fighter. Though, Tuff had taken an interest of tactics and terms so knew how to defend himself and which way to move when the enemy attacked. All his training he applied to the battle, and it was a miracle he had retained so much between constantly bickering with Ruffnut throughout Gobber's teachings.

"You all hear that? Thorston is to lead if something should go awry with me!" Hoark shouted to those in the command jogging by to their places—the Celts would soon come upon them again and they couldn't be for sure how long this time.

"Thank you sir," he found himself saying. He had always admired Hoark, an aging veteran of many raids. He had a scraggly brown beard, streaked with grey showing he was no spring chicken. He often sat at the tavern with Gobber as they laughed about raiding stories or dragon attacks from long ago.

"Attack!" they heard from ahead. Tuff readied his shield and his mace. He ran forward with a shout, all the breath in his chest let out as in a few meters he crashed into a Celt. Their sword swung over his shoulder and he barely dodged it. It was difficult to see in the twilight, no moon had risen or rather there was a thick layer of clouds obscuring it.

He hauled the mace over his head and brought it down, tearing through protective gauntlet of the enemy, which in turn caused the man to drop his weapon. Tuff then shoved his shield into the man, and knocked him hard against the head with the mace. The enemy had worn a whole headed helmet and Tuff saw the metal of the helmet was now dented and the man moved no more. The next one was tougher; they were locked together in clashing their weapons. The Celt belted Tuff in the side with the flat of his sword blade, not turning to the searing edge in time to cut him. The enemy was just as handicapped by the darkness or else Tuff would have surely been struck by the blade. His own helmet fell off and he ducked the next swing, in turn, swinging his mace upward into the Celt, causing him to fall back.

Two large arms grabbed the Celt and twisted his head. They heard a loud snap over the nearby cries of battle. Tuff owed the save to Fishlegs who had berserked his way through the front line and had apparently started back toward the hill. Things would have gone smoother if the phalanx wasn't broken. They were all guilty of breaking it though, that protective V shaped formation they started out with their shields pointed forward—whether from panic or over-excitement. It was often broken and then they had much more ground to cover to make up for losses they could have avoided. Fishlegs's big body was heaving big breaths of air to feed his frenzied movement and there were spots of blood dotting his face, either his or the men he had dispatched.

"Thanks," Tuffnut said and retrieved his helmet from the ground by grabbing the upper goat's horn, not knowing if his friend even comprehended it for Fishlegs was off in another instant to dispatch more. That lad was one Hel of a berserker.

He looked back toward the hill to see a hoard of lingering Celts fighting with Hoark and others under the command and so rushed back up there to help. This would never end. They would fight, retreat, and then return in new—while his comrades were not relieved nor protected. They hadn't even made it inside! Had anyone?

Then Tuff looked at the wall of the fortress, high made of stones and realized it could be taken over if they could find a window of opportunity to break through it. They had no time to set up catapults—ones that were theorized to actually break the wall quicker and from a further distance. They had no time because the Celts were always at their throats and so they had to keep on a defense.

He heard loud cries from above and quickened his legs to run but it was still troublesome with that sharp pain from the arrowhead and he was not in the mindset to take himself back to the boats to tend to the wound properly. He had it wrapped anyway; the best was to hope the pain would ebb.

He added his own body to the entanglement of bodies, swinging at those who swung at him and who's shape he could make out to be less-broad and whole-helmeted among his comrades who wore horns.

He was so rushed with adrenaline, so focused on staying alive that he didn't care that his body was screaming for rest, his calves were cramping, his muscles seemed to ready to crumble at the intense tension held throughout all of them—his entire mind narrowed to that of deflecting all deathblows from those enemies around him.

Hoark's scream broke his focus.

He saw a blade swipe across his commander's throat and then the scream was silenced and then Hoark fell—a sure welcome guest of Valhalla.

Tuff felt moisture tear at his eyes and then he opened his mouth to an outraged bellow and launched his weapon at the savage who had owned the offending blade. It knocked the soldier back, and the sharp spikes that protruded from the cast iron ball pierced into the armor—for it was thrown with such force. The man sputtered and lay there. Tuff grabbed the handle and yanked his weapon out of the man, and then angrily lifted the mace high and slammed it down yet again with a second blow.

Tuff wiped his eye of the mixture of sweat, blood, and tears that had gathered there. Hoark was fallen, and Tuffnut's heart sank for the loss of such a good Viking. This battle proved that nothing was to be expected in a raid. Hoark had survived multiple raids, battles, and attacks but this one was his last.

He grabbed Hoark under his arms and drug the body to the very top of the hill. The hill was a strategic asset, for they could see all who tried to attack from below. There were no more Celts there, well ones that were _alive_ to cause trouble but a new wave would come soon for he saw the last surviving ones, silhouetted against the dark mauve sky, scamper back to their defense.

"How many were lost?" Tuff asked as Snotlout approached.

"Where's Hoark?"

Tuffnut nodded to the ground and Snotlout stepped back in shock at seeing the fallen commander, "And he left _you_ in command?"

"Yes. Now report, how many were lost on this last surge?" Tuff answered coldly, stung that Snotlout, his own best friend, thought him incapable.

Snotlout looked struck, as if he couldn't believe Hoark had chosen Tuff to lead a command over another commander's son. Spitelout was a first commander, who gave direction to a faction of nearly sixty Vikings on this raid—so why hadn't Hoark the Haggard chosen Snotlout for the promotion?

"Eight," Snotlout sighed.

"Where's Ruff?"

She still wasn't there, and this time it sent his stomach into a knot because now that Hoark was dead, what was keeping his sister alive? He shooed those thoughts away, telling himself she was still distracted in fighting. She loved fighting and he above all knew it. He had fought with her for most of his life and she, most of all wanted to take her sorrow of the loss of Ivan the Invincible out on these dirty Celts.

He cleared his throat, "Good, that was less than before."

"Good? Eight of our men have died, how can you say that?" Snotlout chided.

"Better eight than eighteen," Tuff narrowed his eyes. He stared at the wall of the fortress again and then an idea struck him. He was never one for clever ideas—that was usually Hiccup's role.

"Fishlegs, take five men and go back to the boats. Begin to unload the catapults—we have to get them up if we have any hope of breaking the fortress."

The Vikings around him looked at him wide-eyed.

"But, that only leaves three of us!" Snotlout pointed out.

"Just go with it, we don't have much time. They're keeping us at fighting so we _don't_ set the catapults up—pretty soon we'll be too exhausted to do anything and it will be a pure bloodbath."

Snotlout frowned and nodded with acquiescence. Fishlegs began to make way with the rest of the men toward the shore. Tuff bit his lip and began to run across the top of the hill toward the west, "Follow me!"

"But we're supposed to hold the north side!"

Tuff grumbled under his breath and continued running, he needed to find Stoick to tell him of Hoark's fate, to tell him to send his men to the north side. The biggest battle would have to be there. They would have to hold off all the Celts while Fishlegs and his five got those catapults set up.

Tuff found Stoick the Vast right as he finished dispatching a Celt.

"Sir! Hoark has fallen, he has put me in command," Tuffnut spoke quickly.

Stoick's face showed a second of remorse for his commander, for that was all the time one had on the battlefield. Then his face turned to puzzlement, probably wondering why his commander had left an ill-tempered, over-proud youth in charge.

"YOU ONLY HAVE TWO MEN LEFT?" Stoick growled at seeing Snotlout and the other Viking in the command finally catch up behind him.

Tuffnut held up his hands, "No! I sent the remaining ones to set up those catapults. Sir, those are the only way we will overcome this battlefield—I need your division on the north side so we can create a blockade so the Celts do not find out the catapults are being set up. I need all divisions to retreat to the north side for once those catapults break the walls, every Viking will be able to take the fortress and all the Celts within."

Stoick listened and then nodded slowly, "You're right. We're not on a path to victory in this tedious standstill of battle. ALL TO THE NORTHSIDE!"

Stoick's bellow was above all the loudest, such a vast voice in such a vast man. Tuff felt a ringing in his ears but Stoick's words were just the ones he wanted to hear. He gave an '_I told you so_' punch to Snotlout's shoulder as he and the rest of the Vikings rushed toward the north side of the fortress.

He already felt victorious for his decision. He knew those catapults would just destroy all the shielding the Celts possessed. Everything would fall into place, he would be honored, glorious and known as the _world's deadliest weapon_. He and the others began the next round of clashing with the Celts. The new Phalanx was not broken but it let the Celts begin to surround them, which was not what was intended. Tuffnut reached out and drug his mace across a Celt's torso, but it wasn't with enough force and the leather armor was not marred. The Viking behind him finished the job with he blade of his axe.

Tuff felt a renewed energy with knowing they would only have to fight a little bit longer. The fray was longer than the last, nearly two hours and into the black of night but finally he found himself atop the hill with Stoick, Phlegma, Spitelout, Gobber, and the other commanders of other Viking clans that were partaking in the raid. They were all dirty, sweaty, but smiling as Fishlegs returned and reported that the catapults were up and that he was awaiting orders of when to release them.

"After this next fray, I want the catapults to be released, they won't be expecting it—" Stoick told Fishlegs, and the berserker nodded.

"Tuff!" Tuffnut heard his name and they made out a breathless Snotlout approaching.

"What? I'm kind of busy here—" Tuff snapped, figuring Snotlout was still bitter or jealous or whatever about Hoark's decision. He needed to get over it, and get his mind back to focus. Tuff had to stop his reply though because his voice suddenly shrunk into his throat at seeing what Snotlout was holding. It was a dented metal Viking Helmet—longhorns and with protruding upper goat horns, bloodied.

"_Ruff_," Tuffnut finally choked out, unbelievingly.

"I'm—I'm so sorry buddy—I found it down the hill near the wall—"

"Now! I want those catapults released NOW!" Tuffnut shouted at once, an explosion of loss and rage tumbling out of him. Fishlegs was gone though, had taken off down the hill with a berserker's wrath to frighten any god or beast in the nine worlds.

Then Tuffnut simply turned away, stomping, marching toward the catapults himself. He was going to destroy them so bad. It wasn't even about feeling like a mighty warrior anymore, he wasn't doing this because he thought it would make him more respected, feared, or glorious. He no longer cared about any of that. He would rather still be a low-ranked, dirty Viking warrior if that meant his sister were still fighting at his side. It was true their only affection for each other was played out in violent gestures, but for each hard kick or punch, that was just the language of their endearment—almost their own twin-language. She wasn't supposed to be the one who died in battle so soon, she was supposed to be the one who survived and that was even according to their own mother.

As Tuffnut disappeared over the hill toward the shore where the catapults lay ready, his breath heaved—and he let out one, just _one_ sob for Ruffnut—which was the most emotion he would ever betray on her behalf. The remainder of his sorrow seemed to implode in his chest—further searing his insides, and most of all, his heart. Fatherless, and now sisterless these damned Celts left him and he would see to it that they were all destroyed.

**A/N: **_And that is Tuff's sting, it was as of yet the most bloody and battletastic, probably not accurate historically but I already made a note about that in a previous chapter. Also, please note that these chapters are out of order on the time line of plot, just like my last story, '**Winter Haul'**, and it is fairly easy to know in which order they happen by reading the facts carefully._


	5. Losing Control

If there were a more welcome sound in the world, Astrid couldn't remember for the sudden crashing of the stone and rock that made up the wall to the Celtic fortress was the best noise she could have ever remembered hearing. It came as a surprise, all of it. Everything down to the unexpected turn of events, to Phlegma commanding that they move to the north side, to the giant boulder that was the one to crash through the fortress—it was all a surprise and that sound of destruction was the best noise to her because that meant it would soon be over. She wanted nothing more than to go home. Raiding was tiresome, and though made for good excersize was not worth the risk of death to keep fit.

She had no reason to loathe the Celts, yet she had no reason to like them either. More than a few had tried taking her head off in the many frays she fought. She was agile, even wearing the armor that weighed her body down, she could as quickly dodge their blows as the next minute behead them with a hard swing of her axe. She didn't think about their deaths because they meant nothing to her—they were an obstacle in the way of her orders to achive a goal, the taking of the fortress.

Her knuckles and elbow were bleeding, the sleeve of her shirt had been ripped above her gauntlet and somewhere along the way had been struck with an arrow or sword—but it was so fast she didn't notice the pain until now. She winced and popped a crick in her neck, her entire shoulders and neck area were tense with discomfort from holding all the heavy things up for so long. Three days to be exact, she had seen the sun rise three times and wondered if each day would be her last—hoping it was not so. Now the sun was rising on the fourth. Her personal goal was to finish the raid as soon as possible—even if it meant dispatching all enemies she came across—because as soon as it was ended, they could finally go home. Once she was back in Berk, she would punch Hiccup for missing out and then throw her arms around him and give him the most heartfelt kiss she had in her because being so close to death made you realize you had to cherish what you had, and she had him. It seemed the entire Viking army was in the walls, fighting off the Celtics who were trying to defend what little of the fortress was left—grabbing goods and hauling them away. She took a quick moment to collapse into a sitting position on a protruding stone, not knowing how weak her knees were until they started shaking as all the pressure on them released and traveled to her hips. Her entire body felt tender, a good lot of it was probably bruised with all the crashing and colliding into enemy shields and weapons.

She wondered where her friends were, or even her brother—trying to make them out in the dawn—through the gradual rising light of morning. She saw some Vikings from her own clan, and then Vikings from the others that were allies with Berk. She took in a breath of air—it was smoky and mixed with the moisture that always seemed present in the southern islands.

She made herself stand once more, and run further into the fortress. She felt a forceful shove as a Celtic soldier ran past her, she glared and lifted her axe, ready to return the gesture but something dark leapt by in a blur, sending her stumbling backward and she thought she may have just been hallucinating from lack of food.

The dark object was a night fury, and atop it was a young Viking that knew the secrets to her heart. She blinked with disbelief; Hiccup wasn't supposed to be there! After shock and confusion, she raced after them to see what in great Asgard they were up to.

Did Stoick the Vast know his son was here? She followed them, and saw the many Vikings and Celts around her had stopped engaging in battle to witness the fire beast and his boy.

She stopped in what had been a courtyard of the inner fortress, and saw Hiccup was engaged in a swordfight with the Celtic man who had shoved her—but knew it couldn't possibly be due to the fact he had shoved her, though it was a nice chivalrous thought. She didn't even think Hiccup had seen her among the warriors. He looked intense, focused, and absolutely furious—a look she had never seen on his face in her life. Had he taken so quickly to the mood of battle? She remembered him telling her before she left he only wanted to go to protect those he loved. Hiccup was an impressive sword fighter, at least he had proved so during that last season of training before withdrawing. She had been disappointed at his decision, but couldn't chide him for she didn't know how it felt to loose a limb.

The Celt and Hiccup clashed their swords around a stone basin that held water. Only growls of determination to stay alive could be heard between them. Toothless paced around the ring, thoroughly frightening anyone from interfering, and always turning a concerned eye on Hiccup.

Hiccup finally thrust forward and pressed his blade upon the Celt's, then kicked it away where it skittered across the ground. Hiccup grabbed the man by the cloth at his neck and forced him down and pointed his sword in a deathblow at the man's throat. It was horrifying and amazing to witness him in such a raw state of anger—he _never_ intentionally hurt living things, least of all other humans. It just wasn't who he was. Astrid knew this and a deep part of her willed him to show mercy—for that was the reason she loved him. She had come to understand mercy was not the same thing as weakness.

Hiccup paused, maybe just then realizing what he was doing.

_Please_, she fiercely thought, _Stop._

Hiccup gave an agonizing shout of rage but instead of cutting the man's neck open, Hiccup moved the blade to the man's face and sliced a superficial cut across the side of it, enough to feel pain but not to kill—forever scarring him.

Astrid rushed to him then, Toothless bumped his head into her torso to stop her from interfering.

"_That_ was for my father," Hiccup took in a ragged breath and growled at the man, who probably couldn't understand him anyway—only that his life had been spared which was more to say than his fallen comrades around him. Astrid let out a gasp realizing something horrible had happened to Stoick, and that was the reason for Hiccup's unusual wrath.

"Where is your leader? Take me to him!"

The man just stared wearily as blood began leaking from his face cut.

Hiccup let the man up roughly and looked around at those who had been watching, "All Vikings, halt your battle! Pass the word that this raid is OVER! Who is in charge here? Come forward!"

No one answered.

"For the love of Thor, can anyone speak to these people?"

"I can," Astrid heard a familiar voice from the other side of the crowd, recognizing it to be her brother's. Relief for his safety welled inside her—glad he was unharmed.

"Tell him I want to speak to their leader, tell them to cease fighting for we have also."

Svenan nodded and began to shout in Celtic to those who understood the language around them, which now the fact came to surprise her as she had no idea he was able to speak another language—though it shouldn't have been since he traveled so often to other lands.

She wanted to take a moment to embrace Hiccup, to let him know she was alive and all right but he looked so focused that she hated to bother him in the middle of something as vastly important as this. He was going to do what he did best—resolving problems. He only seemed to cause them until Toothless came along—how much he had changed in three years from that awkward gangly boy to this firm young man who possessed a leader's heart.

Since the raid was over, Astrid took it upon herself to start putting out the fires that had destroyed a lot of the fortress. No one had tried extinguishing them since it had started and it was better for everyone if it was stopped. She found a bucket in the rubble and filled it with water from the basin. She was experienced at putting out fires, especially those ignited from dragon attacks. She began to pour the water onto the flames, the heat of them near scorching as she came closer and closer. Others had seen her and began to help, now that they must have noticed that bothersome and thick smoke rising around them that had been most of the night. She bit her lip and turned to see Hiccup being led off, Toothless following to meet with the Celtic leader—whomever it was. She initially would have been worried for his safety, just as she had been when he was to fight a Monsterous Nightmare but from witnessing him that day she knew she would never have to worry about that again.

She told herself to stop thinking about him, he would work things out and she tried to advert her eyes and step over those bodies of those who were no longer living. The flames were eventually put out and most of the Vikings retreated form the fortress, leaving the Celtic's to their now destroyed home.

_Odin what have we done?_ She looked at the toppled towers and rubble, the bodies, the devastation. What was it all for? For Viking pride and glory—reputation? To take what they could not obtain otherwise—the rich meats, grains, and fruits that were not obtainable in the north—the gold and silver?

She turned and she ran before the guilt could hit her fully. How many had she done in? They were only protecting their home and both sides had paid dearly. She tried to cover the rising guilt by reminding herself that they were savagely, and they didn't even believe in Odin the All-father so therefore they would all perish to Helheim where Hel would have her way with them. Still, was that an excuse to kill them?

On the field it was even worse, how would these hills ever be clean of the blood and treachery? Her mind dizzied and she threw her axe into the earth to balance on the handle. She saw that beneath the bodies grew brilliant blue flowers, the kind her brother liked to give to pretty girls—and was reminded that even through all the death, life would go on. She was alive, at least and resolved to make the most of her life while it existed. She took in a breath to calm her nerves.

She saw Tuffnut across the field, and quickened her pace to catch up with him.

"So you're alive?"

It was a stupid question but she put as much tone in her voice to say she was glad he hadn't died.

"Barely," his voice croaked, dry and battered-sounding.

"Come on, let's get back to the boats to find something to drink or eat. I can't remember the last time I had food."

"Me neither," he agreed.

They continued on and she noticed he was limping from a crudely wrapped wound in his thigh.

"You should take care of that," she nodded toward it.

"Yeah," he agreed, but she could tell he didn't care.

They passed the used catapults, towering above their heads. Astrid knew Hiccup had designed them, and perhaps they were the saving grace of the Viking's near-failed raid—she smiled inwardly thinking of how she would soon be able to see him again, tell him how proud she was of him.

Once on the boats, they found Ruffnut and Fishlegs—Ruff had apparently been severly injured in her shoulder area. She was uncharacteristically quiet, and Astrid figured it was due to the disappointment of not having been there for the final battle.

Fishlegs was distracted in his own thoughts but managed to offer the other two blonde Vikings some biscuits he had stashed for himself on the trip over. Tuff practically inhaled his and asked for more in case Fishlegs was still holding out—after all, Fish had a big appetite.

Tuff sat next to his sister and tried coaxing her to talk about what was bothering her, obviously something he did not do often as he looked awkward about it—but she merely glowered and turned her back on him without a word, not even with an initiation to a spat. Astrid took Ruff and had her lay down in her lap, undoing the tangles of her ridiculously long hair, just to pass the time. Ruff might have fallen asleep during the process. None of them had any sleep, what exactly was keeping them awake now? Fishlegs and Tuff started talking about some of the fays they were in, though Fishlegs had trouble remembering much as he seemed to retreat into a daze of sorts, losing his train of thought. Tuffnut was finally paying his would attention, wrapping it with fresh material. Astrid could see the battle had changed them all in someway, for better or worse it was yet to tell.

They sat there for a long time, just resting their legs, awaiting orders because they wouldn't be able to just sail away now that Hiccup had assumedly began negotiations of some sort. More and more Vikings came back to the boats also in search for ale or biscuits or dried lamb. Some were furious that Hiccup had stopped the Raid when they were finally in the fortress, if it had continued they would have been the victors. Some were relieved because they were dead tired, and the battle had taken everything out of them. Many demanded to know what had become of Stoick the Vast, but even Astrid did not know exactly what had happened—only knew it was something bad. She was anxious for the moment to see Hiccup so she could hear the story and have all her questions answered.

It was asked that if they were not the victors, were they defeated? Nothing like this had ever happened before. The morning light was clouded over by graying clouds—a common occurrence as it had rained the first day they pulled ashore, and a battle in the rain was theoretically epic but it caused lots of chafing and blisters in the Vikings's boots. Mud was also a problem, holding them back and maybe that's why they lost so many on that first day. Astrid had been on the Eastern edge of the fortress fighting the whole battle, under Phlegma the Feirce's command. The woman _was_ fierce, a true example of a lady warrior. Woman warriors were not that common, and only the toughest were invited to join training and go to raids—Astrid and Ruffnut were the perfect fit of the new recruits, having grown up to anticipate attacks and eager to join in on the fighting. Now though, Ruff was silent and somber and Astrid felt as grey as the sky.

"Man I hate this place," Tuff growled, she saw him wipe a drop of rain off of his forehead. She in turn, felt the cold moisture fall onto her. She sighed.

"It just makes you full of ire," Ruffnut finally spoke, startling all—so she was awake after all.

"It's the land of ire," Astrid agreed with indifference, working a hard knot out of Ruff' pale blonde hair.

"Ireland," Fishlegs added.

"That's what it should be called from now on at least," Tuff said, "I command it to be Ireland."

"Are you still our commander?" Fishlegs wondered. Astrid yawned, curious about the story of how Tuff was promoted but felt her eyes get heavy, and just couldn't focus anymore.

Awhile later they woke up, all must have fallen asleep in sheer exhaustion in wait of orders. It was still daylight. Astrid lifted her head off of Tuff's shoulder and blinked blearily to see what was making noise. It was another Viking, one of Berk's that was sent from the fortress to report what had happened.

"What's going on now? What did Hiccup do?" they asked, all in wonder.

"Hiccup the Useful has reached terms with the Lord MacVaren, of Celtic nobility. They both agreed the raid was regrettable, Hiccup has demanded half the stolen goods be returned and Lord MacVaren shall let us keep the remainder in exchange for leaving a faction of Vikings to stay in the Southern Islands—"

"_Ireland_!" Tuffnut interjected obnoxiously.

Their messenger glared at him before continuing, "—to stay to help rebuild and clean the mess."

"How many?" Astrid asked, wondering with a small worry if Hiccup himself would stay. He would if he thought it the right thing.

"Nearly 200 combined from all clans."

Astrid's chest fell at the large number, but she supposed that was what it would take to fix the damage.

But it should only take a season or so with that many at work.

"There's more," the messenger coughed and then darted a regrettable look toward Astrid, which threw her chest even deeper to worry. What more news could there be?

"And to make sure all promises are kept between the Vikings and Celts, Hiccup is to wed the Lord's Daughter to secure the peace."

Astrid wasn't sure if she had heard correctly, in fact she was sure that the messenger had repeated the message wrong. Ruff's head shot up from her place in Astrid's lap instantly. Astrid blinked a few times as all of them looked at her, waiting for her reaction. The news came as a wave of shock, thousands of questions piled into her head so much it caused a headache but one over all screamed loudest—_How could he agree to do that?_

And as the colossal disappointment and the anger and the disbelief wrestled within her to achieve dominance, she also had the tiny logical part of her conscious trying to tell her that Hiccup only did it for his people, for peace. Of course the people should matter more than one girl but she was so sure she was to be with him after all this. She wanted to live her life with him, and there was no other—it _had_ to be him. That tiny part was swept away, overpowered by the other three. If one thing was shared in those three emotions, it was the tears that had found their way to her azure eyes. She heaved in a breath that let out in a sob because it hurt, it stung worse than any wound she had acquired on the battlefield, and more suffocating than any guilt she could ever feel. It was heartbreak, the first heartbreak she had ever experienced. To know that some girl would have what she could not, hurt and it made her _furious_. She stood and picked up her axe, making her way off the boat. No one stopped her although it was suspected she was going out there to kill the russet-haired Viking even if he had the protection of the night fury.

She didn't make it far though, only to the catapults where she began to scream and hack into the wooden leg of the catapult with her axe. The rain started in harder. She shouted in screams of sorrow and rage so loud Hiccup could probably hear them all the way back at the fortress. The worst part was he had known what he was doing, he had made the decision knowing it would hurt her. What. A. _Jerk_.

With every scream she put a new chop into the wood. She hated him—she was filled with such ire. This really was the land of ire, or _Ireland_ as Tuff declared it. She hated the girl that was to be his bride, she hated the raid, she hated how Hiccup made her feel and she hated—_hated_ the hate within her that eventually caused her axe to swing around so hard, the leg creaked and the whole device made a buckling noise. She shouldn't have been able to do that—being exhausted and starving but there was that one poem about 'no fury is greater than that of a woman's scorn' or whatever it was that her mother had recited once.

She backed away swiftly as she watched the catapult break and tumble to the ground. It felt good, just a little. Pieces fell around her and she stayed still with a scowl directed at that fortress in the distance, the rain had slicked her hair into her eyes, dripping off her body, cooling her ire just a little. She saw the similarity between that catapult and the fortress, that was also within her—they all had been destroyed.

**A/N:** _So, happy fast update everyone. This is what I love about one-shots, or in my case, one-shot compilations. You're probably thinking a big WTF, at me throwing out that last plot twist. Marriage between clans or countries was a common way to ensure an alliance—and I suppose a lot of the sudden 'peace' resolution occurred because Hiccup shows up with a big scary dragon under his order. _


	6. Casualties of War

Snotlout was inarguably made for battle. He fought with precision, his energy and enthusiasm in battle was not wavering, and he knew what he had to do, and how to get it. So it came as a rather harsh sting to him that his best friend, a _good_ Viking but not _as good_ as himself, was chosen to take command after their initial commander expired in battle. After all, Snotlout was of the elite, he _should_ have been chosen.

He was angry, he was confused but still—as a Viking of great example he swallowed it and continued to fight, for that was the most important thing. All his anger he focused onto his enemy. It seemed that all Snotlout had in him was anger, especially since the season before.

He could be angry at other things later, when it was over and they had taken the Celtic fortress they had been trying to breach the past three days—no wait, _four_ because it was dawn again. Snotlout had never been good at counting.

Though, he had to give Tuff credit—Tuffnut did make a good call concerning the catapults for now they were all inside. Too bad they couldn't have been released sooner, the Vikings would have saved a few warriors but that cloak of night did their side good for the crashes and crumbling of the Celtic stronghold came as a total surprise and demoralizer to its people.

The last phase of all of this was to take their leaders, the Celtic Lords who had trickled down their orders from behind the safety of their fortress all the while. Though, even though the Celtic nobles were yet to be found with in the walls, he saw Viking comrades as they grabbed goods, looted the inner housing structures, dispatched resisting enemies, and hassled the newly widowed lasses. The approaching daylight caused their visions to become clearer—on both sides so now the last battle would be even bloodier because they saw clearly where they were striking.

He held his broadsword out in front of him in one hand, ready take on a charging Celt. He lifted his shield to block the soldier's strike. The Celt was as massive as Snotlout and piled into him. 'Lout growled with a steadfast footing and then flipped the soldier over his shoulder where the man tumbled to the stone. The soldier's helmet fell off to reveal the bloodied face of the enemy. Snotlout raised his sword over his head and let it fall with a vicious shout of victory. He drew his lips back in a triumphant sneer at the body and adjusted his shoulder armoring. With now dwindling numbers of an enemy to dispatch, his mind could steadily begin to slow its lust for blood and calm it's panicked state of always searching for a new target.

He was still on his guard but for the first time since the start of battle he saw an actual face behind those whole-headed helmets—a face of lad no older than he. He took notice of the dullness within the corpse's eyes, the clear haunting look of fear before death. He squirmed uncomfortably, inwardly chiding himself for feeling whatever he was feeling about it—whatever it was, he knew it was something a Viking _shouldn't_ feel.

He shuddered involuntarily but kept moving forward, finding the last leg of the battle being fought in the open yard the inner halls surrounded. He was bombarded with blades, they cut into his chest armor—one even shattered his gauntlet, leaving his forearm exposed and rendering his broadsword clattering to the ground. He sucked in a breath at the sudden pain in his lower arm. He bent down in a dodge to the second strike and grappled at trying to regain his weapon, but he heard a fierce shout and looked up into the blazing morning sun as a silhouetted shadow of a blade came downward at his face. He winced, waiting for the sure deathblow, as there was no time to have his sword ready to defend himself. It was his turn to be a casualty of war—another dull-eyed body, but at least there was a small consolation knowing he would end up with the Valkyries.

The blow never came. Before it could touch him, a mace swung into view, in a half-circled swing, right into the chest of 'Lout's assaulter. Tuff swung again, meeting the block of the Celt's sword, which gave Snotlout time to gather his wits and pick up his own. He thrust it upward with all his might—piercing through the man's leather armor. He withdrew it and his enemy fell, but their helmet stayed on, saving 'Lout from acquiring that weird feeling again.

"Thanks buddy," Snotlout heaved a breath of air out.

"Don't mention it," Tuff croaked, obviously not well. Snotlout saw his best friend was limping. There was no way Tuff could make it through the inner-fortress battle like that. He would surely die. Snotlout grabbed Tuff by his shoulder, "Man, go back to the boats—get that taken care of."

He pointed at Tuff's thigh. Tuff twisted his face in suspicion, "So what, you can take over the command?"

"Tuff, at this point no one is commanding! We're all just raiding until we capture those lords—and I'm not telling you to go because I want to take over," Snotlout shouted earnestly and held up his arm, the one his gauntlet no longer protected so Tuff could see what was inked on his inner wrist. Tuff stared at it, knowing he too had it—that mark of brotherhood, of friendship they had tattooed to their skins when they were fifteen.

Tuffnut nodded and gave a slap to Snotlout's back in appreciation as he began to retreat, "Don't die!"

"I don't count on it!" 'Lout replied over the Viking crowd, he really didn't. He didn't like to count. His determination was renewed at winning this thing. A day ago he would have questioned the possibility. He might have been lying to Tuffnut just a little—he _did_ want to command, to feel that position of power but equally he did not want his best friend to be slain either.

He left the courtyard and ran into one of the inner structures that led to a hall of sorts where he found more Vikings—grabbing the barrels of grain or fruit that had lined the walls, if there had been Celts they had been dispatched or scattered elsewhere. He climbed the stairs that led to the upper floor corridor, on a lookout for anything that could lead him to the Celtic Lords. If he were the first to find them and hold them he would certainly be revered.

As he passed a room, within it he saw two Viking clansmen from the isles west in the Barbaric Archipelago, allies of Berk but socially crude and only good for fighting—they were hassling a young Celtic woman. One had shoved her into his buddy where he grabbed her and leered, spoke rudely and then repeated the gesture toward the first man. Her clothes were ripped, and parts of her undergarment could be seen, and he could see her tears though she tried keeping a brave face. He knew he wasn't supposed to feel anything but loathing for the enemy, but when he looked at the poor girl he became angry at the western clansmen.

"Hey!" he stopped in his path and shouted which distracted them. The first man tightened his hold paying no mind to the girl struggling to be free of his grasp.

"What do you want?"

"Let her go."

The men laughed, "Yeah, say who?"

Snotlout strode forward and surprised them by pulling his sword on them, so much for being allies, "Stoick the Vast's orders were to take the fortress and capture the lords—it looks like you two have been distracted, so let me point you in the right direction."

He then withdrew his sword and pointed it toward the open doorway that led into the corridor signaling that they were done there.

They grumbled and left but not without some purely nasty looks toward the young brunette Viking. It would seem they could take Snotlout if need be but they could also see he was of the Viking elite by his weapons. The really good warriors got to wield broadswords and were adorned with whole shoulder armor just as Snotlout was. He watched them go, making sure they would not come back after Snotlout left to continue his search. When he was satisfied, he then turned to the girl, "Are you all—?" but she was already gone as there was a hidden passage through the wall that was left open that she had probably fled through.

"Crap!" he shouted and sheathed his sword, going after her. He probably shouldn't have bothered but he didn't like the small concern growing in his head she would raise an alarm and bring more enemy warriors into the vicinity. He ran through the space, cursing its narrowness as his brawny figure was having trouble quickly navigating it. His shoulders crashed into rocks, their armor striking along the stone and causing an ear-piecing scraping noise. He flipped off his shoulder armor and the strap of his shield halfway through because there was no possible way he could carry it through such a passageway.

He emerged in a room that was dim, something had collapsed the doorways that led through to the outside—probably rubble from one of the fallen fortress towers and he saw the Celtic lass wildly trying to dig through the rocks to be free.

As he approached, his boots made scuffling noises and she whirled around, wide eyed. She immediately grabbed up a rock and hurled it at his head.

"Woah!" he yelled and dodged it. She had an impressive aim, and threw it with surprising force. He watched it land past him but then felt a sharp pain as she had picked up another and that time hit him right in the side of his skull. He glared at _Rock Girl _and pulled out his sword threateningly as he stomped forward.

She bent down into a crouching position holding her arms over her head as though it would protect her from his wrath. Though his footsteps slowed and his anger dissipated at seeing her pathetic form. After a moment of realizing that she hadn't been slain or taken, she peered up at him.

She had the most amazing green eyes, as lush as the growth of spring. She probably couldn't understand him so he made the gesture of setting his sword to the ground, slowly—meaning her no harm. She watched him very, very carefully—very suspicious.

Finally she brought herself up and more moments of silence passed that seemed to last forever and Snotlout for the life of him, did not know what to say. He probably should have killed her and gotten on with it. It would be the Viking thing to do but he just couldn't—not when she was staring at him like _that_.

After looking him over, she released a shaky breath and then in a biting tone asked, "Why aren't you hassling me like your comrades?"

He balked, not expecting her to know his language. She spoke it with an odd accent—her vowels sounding short but it still took him for surprise. He wondered how she knew it, but instead of asking, he opened his mouth and could only form an eloquent, "Wha-at?"

Her expression turned to an accusing frown, "You chased them off because you wanted a turn at me."

"No! No, no! They were idiots, and they weren't following orders."

She pressed her lips together, "And standing here with me, is that part of _your_ orders?"

He didn't like her attitude, and thought it foolish of her to serve up so much sass for being unarmed, a lady of the enemy, and alone. Stupid _Rock Girl_, it was almost like she was entitled—something he could understand but still she should have known her place, to act meekly in the face of a dangerous foe.

Then, he noticed the manner of her torn clothes—they had once been on the more elegant side. Now it made sense. Her attitude was so because she was a part of the nobility and perhaps she was being bold because he had set down his sword. He grabbed it up and pointed it at her.

"No, my orders are to capture the Celtic Lords. You will be my prisoner and you will lead me to them because you are of the nobility."

"I'm not—" she objected which caused him to stop his approach. Still he held his sword out even though she couldn't possibly be able to harm him. Was she trying to trick him? He felt she was.

"Then why are your garments so fine?"

She looked down at herself and then raised her chin high—proving his suspicions no matter her lies, "You call torn and tattered garments 'fine'?"

He lowered his brows with impatience and stepped forward to have his answer. Fear flickered through her expression but she caught it with a wry grin, "Well, I see not all Viking warriors are half-wits."

He didn't know if that was a compliment to him or an insult at all the other Vikings but returned her sarcastic grin, "If we were half-wits—we would never win any battles."

Her confidant expression broke to that of a hateful glower, "You think you've won this thing?"

"Baby, I _know_ we've won this thing—" he began to gloat but then her eyes widened and she pointed behind him, "Look out!"

He swiveled around in alarm but saw nothing but the emptiness of the room. When he realized he had been tricked he grew angry and when he turned back—to end this nonsense, take her back as a prisoner, even under threat of sword—he was met with a hard blow to the side of his head.

Pain welled through his skull and his eyes blurred, time seemed to slow as he saw that memorable figure of a girl flee past him and a big rock drop from her hold. He fell hard to the ground; his helmet fell off and made a clashing noise as it tumbled away. That assaulting piece of earth landed as well, where small pieces chipped away as rolled across the ground until it was next to him. His last thoughts before darkness took hold was oddly enough, that he _was_ a half-wit for falling for such an old trick.

When he came to, it was dim but still daylight. He sat up with disorientation and felt the side of his head where a lump was forming. He cursed under his breath, vowing to find that Celtic tart and make her atone for her assault. He pushed that stupid rock away, the one that had hit him. As he sat up he felt the cold smoothness of metal under his jaw and his eyes slowly crept to the side to see her with _his _sword. _Rock girl. _Apparently he did not have to look very far. He felt his anger return in ten fold.

She gave another one of her wry smiles, subtly enjoying the power she held over him. He swallowed and felt his throat bump touch the flat of the blade.

"Why are you still here? You could have escaped," he pointed out, glaring.

"Escape to what exactly? More haggard Vikings looking for a lady to ravage? More vicious creatures that would as soon slay me as see me? I think not. 'Tis much safer in this empty room with one unarmed Viking."

He made a move to stand but she pressed the blade closer to his skin in warning. Not _all _Vikings were how she described, _he_ wasn't—but he saw saying so wouldn't make her believe it any more. She loathed him, he could see it in her eyes but if it were so true it was puzzling to why _he_ was still there. He tensed and stopped moving—"Then why didn't you just kill me?"

He wasn't inviting her to, just curious why she hadn't. She was the one with the sword and he had been unconscious—it would have the perfect kill. The downed Viking.

Something wavered in her expression but still her eyes held firm on his, "You may have saved my life back there and it is only fair I return the gesture. Though I should rightfully slaughter any Viking who dare invade my home."

"Your people could have been spared if you wouldn't have retaliated," he snorted.

She gave a doubtful huff.

"_Everyone_ could have been spared if you would have stayed in _Uffern_, for that is where you crawled out of and you should all return to!" She bit back with venom and leaned forward threateningly with those blazing green eyes, which was a mistake because her anger had made her unbalanced and unfocused so he grabbed her wrist, squeezing it tightly—she cried out and dropped his sword. He caught it and turned it on her, the point of the blade directly aimed at her neck.

"I don't know what _Uffern _is, but _I_ come from Berk." He stood up while grabbing her upper arm roughly, "Now, you're gonna lead me to your Lords and if you don't, I'll kill you." He really didn't want to have to because she was the most useful way to getting where he wanted to go. So hopefully she would refrain from throwing any more rocks at him.

Something in her eyes recognized something he had spoken but he didn't let her voice it, he prodded her with the blade end and urged her forward. She probably had the notion to deceive him, only masked her steady movement as cooperation. They made their way up the passage to the room that let out to the corridor. It was quieter. The metal sounds of clashing were far off if not entirely gone. They emerged through to the outside courtyard and it was down pouring rain. He cursed and looked up at the dank clouds. It wasn't a thunderstorm—just cascades of rain that would make anyone think that the Gods were weeping.

Instead of a fight scene as he had left it, there were lingering Celts that were tending to their wounded under roughly made canopies. No Vikings. What had happened? After all this, were the Vikings defeated? While he furiously pondered their fates, his feisty captive darted forward into a sprint.

"Hey!" He bellowed and went after her. He followed her into another entryway. She ran up a series of twisted stairs but failed to lose him. They were in a wide corridor now and he was getting closer. She tugged open a door as he lunged forward and grabbed her ankle, causing her to crash forward. They rolled into grander room, dressed with timber and stone.

He put his weight on her, effectively pinning her, "What do you think you are doing, Rock girl?"

"_Rock girl_?" She scoffed at her title and brought her leg up from behind, kicking him in his head. He was further impressed by her flexibility. "Obviously your Raid is over. You _failed. _ Go back to _Uffern _with your scurvy comrades. The Celtic peoples have prevailed."

Her taunting caused another great anger to rise within him, he raised his hand to strike her but again he couldn't bring himself to do it. One thing was for sure, he was failing at being a Viking, the only sure part of himself he knew he had left. He growled and instead crunched his hand into a fist and punched the floor. It was painful. She outwardly shrieked, as the blow was so close to her head. He shook his fist out with a wince as she stared, her eyes wide and her breaths quick with fright.

He turned a glare on her and let his weight up. "Why can't I hurt you?" He shouted and grabbed her arms, giving her a good shake, "WHY CAN'T I HURT YOU?"

Her eyes were closed tight as she was jerked back and forth by his shaking and when he halted they opened—filled with sympathy not for an enemy, but for a fellow-human.

"You can."

He stared at her.

"You just _won't_ because you know it is wrong."

Really? Was that really the reason? Or was she just trying to make him feel guilty? He couldn't think on it too much for she had quickly picked herself up and stood in front of the next set of doors. She appeared to be ruffled as her hand landed on the handle.

"Go. Be gone! Behind these doors lay the mightiest of Celtic warriors, the protectors of the lords and they will tear you to pieces."

She threw open the doors and both youths were met with a shocking sight. He realized that he and _Rock Girl_ were wrong, they had missed out on events while in that blocked room. Neither side had won the battle.

There was a dragon. He saw a _wiry_—russet haired youth that had no business even being in the Southern Isles. He saw his own father as well as Astrid's brother, he saw the Celtic Lords and their so-called 'mighty protectors'—and it sure didn't look like they had been _captured_. It was weird, really _weird_ and perplexing to Snotlout.

Hiccup sat in a chair across from a noble-looking man of stature. The Lord was shouting and Hiccup looked nervous but tired as his hand habitually stroked the back of Toothless's neck for comfort. No one even bothered to turn towards the two that had just entered, the most engaging thing were the two beings seemingly in charge to decide the fate of everything.

"Snotlout!" his father pulled him aside in surprise and perhaps even relief for Snotlout was still alive, they hadn't seen each other since the day they got off the boats and into immediate battle. Spitelout ushered him to the side of the room where the Viking elite stood.

"What the Hel is going on?" Snotlout asked, lowering his voice as he heard the Celtic Lord 's shouts. Svenan Hofferson was apparently translating for anyone in the room. Seriously? Really? This was actually happening?

Spitelout saw his son's crumpled brow of bafflement and began to whisper, "Stoick the Vast has been injured—"

"Is he okay?" Snotlout was alarmed for his uncle.

"About an hour ago it happened. He's back on his boat, resting. I managed to stop the bleeding and left him with attendants. It was lucky nothing vital on his insides was pierced. Then Hiccup arrived—"

"Yeah _what_ is Hiccup doing here?"

"He commanded the raid to end, he's negotiating with the primary Celtic Lord over there."

_Since when did this raid turn into a negotiation?_ Snotlout seethed, doubting his little cousin could even attempt to be successful. He also was angry that Hiccup had ordered it all to be over when they were close to winning. Snotlout had been so close to what he had wanted.

He saw _Rock Girl_ quietly stand against the wall on the opposite side of the room. She was subtly smiling at someone and Snotlout followed her gaze to Svenan and he didn't know what to make of it. Perhaps Sven really must have had a male seduction to rival an incubus because here they were in a different land, and he still was the first to catch a lady's favor despite being her enemy.

"Demands aid to rebuild…" he caught a snippet of what Sven was translating. Snotlout snorted under his breath—they would never come to an agreement. Even so, negations would take years after this kind of damage. They were all wasting time; it would have just been better to fight to the victory instead of this tedious sit-down, so near the end of it too! Why couldn't Hiccup have waited a few more hours to show up?

Hiccup listened carefully, looking diplomatic but his eyes were narrowed—upset at something.

"What has happened so far?" Snotlout leaned over and asked.

"The Lords ordered his death despite Hiccup calling off the raid, but you see that guard over there?" Spitelout nodded toward the other side of the chamber subtly and Snotlout saw a man with a mauled arm, darting nervous glances at the alert night fury at Hiccup's side.

"Yeah?"

"No one can touch that boy when he has his dragon."

'Lout understood that all the Lords and warriors had witnessed what a fire beast was capable of and that it was endeared to the primary Viking leader. They were afraid, he realized—of what Hiccup could do. Hiccup intimidated them—it was almost laughable to Snotlout that any one could feel threatened by the young Viking. Even through the frantic shouts of that Celtic Lord, fear could be heard.

The Lord finally calmed himself and sat in his own chair, wiping perspiration off his forehead. Sven trailed off with a number the Lord had suggested then added, "Hiccup, I will honorably volunteer to stay and rebuild the destruction we have caused."

Again, _Rock Girl_ was caught smiling at the news and Snotlout just rolled his eyes.

Hiccup nodded thoughtfully and stood from where he was sitting, "Svenan I appoint you to lead any reconstruction. He gave a shallow nod of his head toward the lord, "Lord MacVaren, I accept your terms and I promise we will never come to these shores again in a hostile manner."

Toothless stood also and they left Sven to finish the translation. Snotlout wasn't surprised of the Lord's frown—looking to be that of disapproval and suspicion. He chattered with a biting tone to which Svenan translated, "The Lord says that the promise is empty, that there is nothing to stop us or our people or the dragons from attacking the Celtics so he demands yet another conciliation."

"Anything," Hiccup sighed earnestly, really just letting this guy roll over him with all his demands. This wasn't a negotiation; it was Hiccup giving away everything! Why did Hiccup always _ruin_ everything? What did the Vikings get out of this, a measly half the goods from the raid?

Snotlout suddenly feared for Stoick's life, for he couldn't imagine living under the guidance of a chieftain Hiccup. Hiccup could not plan battles, not _real_ ones and his negotiating skills were nil. Everyone would go soft while Hiccup was in charge, he that wouldn't even kill a dragon when it was downed.

That thought catapulted his mind to remember that secret room. _The downed Viking_. He was unconscious but yet that lass did not strike him, his enemy did not strike him. He remembered the look of sympathy she briefly held at him because he failed to realize that they were all humans. He remembered that Celtic warrior he had slain earlier—and that odd feeling afterward. Now he could put his finger on it.

Regret.

The feeling of being a Viking was growing smaller and smaller as a horrid feeling rose in him and replaced it. She had been right, he couldn't hurt her because he knew, deep down, it was wrong.

The Lord was rambling on about what his last proposed term was and Snotlout was bored to death, and began to feel the ache of the past three days—in his body and his mind. Maybe he should have just gone back to the boats. There was now nothing in the Southern Isles for him.

Svenan had stopped translating and gawked at the lord, and immediately _Rock Girl_, whom Snotlout had forgotten was there because she had been so quiet, began to shout objectively in Celtic toward the lord. She was nearly hysterical.

"What? What did he say?" Hiccup pulled on Sven's sleeve. Toothless's head was whipping around at all the noise, confused and growling in warning in case they made to try and harm Hiccup again.

"He asks that his daughter be wed to a Viking of the elite blood, to secure your promise. He explains that you would not attack her people if you were joined, and the Celtics would not attack us in turn."

Snotlout saw his cousin's face turn ashen and pale, and suddenly all the contempt he held for the awkward leader dissipated because he saw the sure heartbreak in the lad at the decision he was about to make. Snotlout once had that feeling and it was the worst feeling a man in love could ever feel. Then he realized _Rock Girl _was the Lord's daughter as she was displeased at being bartered off hence her moment of hysterics at Sven's announcement. A small disappointment twisted in him at discovering that fact.

Hiccup closed his eyes for a couple of moments and then, "Okay." His voice was near whisper, his eyes opened again and he let out a breath and repeated, "Okay."

Perhaps there was something to be said for sacrifice and leadership. All great leaders had to sacrifice something to be called great, and Hiccup had no doubt sacrificed something of great importance to him to keep the peace.

Snotlout felt bad for the both of them. He knew _she_ hated the Vikings for their raiding, and now she was supposed to marry one. Hiccup was in love with someone else but now no longer could pursue his interest. The whole situation sucked.

He watched as Sven held out his hand for _Rock Girl_ to take as she stepped forward to Hiccup to be introduced. Her name was Brynna.

Snotlout preferred _Rock Girl_.

The tension in the room dropped if only a fraction but it could be considered the first notch in a million towards a slow-mending progress.

What was supposed to be a season of beauty and renewal was tainted with the cries of war and the stains of blood and the heartbreak of youth. There was still growth though, still a sense of renewal, just as strong as a fledgling plant slowly traveling upward toward the sun. A growth of thought, of will, and of morals that would become stronger and renewed within those Viking comrades who would have never known how simple life really was before they had been in battle. Before they had felt the sting of spring.

**A/N:** _Oi that was a long one._

_Oh, before I forget: HTTYD and it's characters are property of Cressida Cowell and if not hers then Dreamworks. I only get to claim Svenan and Rock Girl/Brynna, go me. Woo._

_My spring season farewell, wrap up: Now before you panic your pants off remember that these are __**character**__ studies, glimpses into what they are thinking during a series of events and meant to illustrate a growth in their beliefs, or personality. Therefore plot is second, reality is a mix of tidbit history and cannon fantasy, and all problems that may arise will not have a resolution. Please enjoy your intermission until the summer season pops up. I apologize for any evil-ness you feel I have committed by ending it like this [but now you are compelled to read my next compilation, no?]_

_Thanks again for the wonderful reviews to all who reviewed and hoped you enjoyed it despite its very dark and depressing overtones._


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